


Amalgamation

by ManicMoose



Series: The Scientific Method [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Irene Adler, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst, Discussion of Abortion, Fake Science, Gender Issues, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, References to Miscarriage, Scent Kink, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-10-28 02:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: Two weeks after the…fiascowith The Woman, he's still feeling awful- worse actually. He was sick again in the morning, and even now that the nausea has abated he feels terribly drained. Obviously that touch of the flu has well and truly caught up with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we're off again! Thank you to everyone who's commented, kudosed and well, _read_ my little series so far. Your interest has kept me plugging along through the blah off-days, when this little plot bunny of mine runs off and hides somewhere, and the old muse is being uncooperative. That being said, I've been having a lot of fun with this- which is a bit unexpected, to say the least, considering that I avoided even _reading_ Omegaverse stuff for years, thinking it was "too weird". Annnd look at me now. Funny how life works, eh?
> 
> I'm trying this spaced-out posting thing on for size, to buy myself some time to finish off the last chapter, and get a head start on the next part in the series. The rating will likely be going up, and additional tags will be added as we go; I just didn't wanna spoil things right out the gate for those reading along as I post. Hard to get a little dramatic faux-suspense otherwise (let's be honest- there aren't _really_ many _true_ surprises in fic)! I will make sure to tag anything potentially triggering as soon as it comes up, and mention the additions in my notes, so please do keep abreast of that if need be. If you just landed here without reading the tags, you may want to head for the emergency exits now if o-verse and the fantastical things about it like heats and mpreg squick you out. 
> 
> (Lastly, brief shout out to any fellow fic-writers that happen to be reading: This season was... not my cup of tea. And I thought I'd lose interest in the Sherlock fandom, but I'm more engaged and inspired than I ever have been. And it's definitely thanks to the amazing content being put out by fellow fans. So, kudos to all of you for existing!) 
> 
> Sorry for the novel-length author notes here. I'll stop now. Hope y'all enjoy!

“You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?” John informs Sherlock peevishly through the laptop screen.

Humiliating? Whatever does John mean by that? Sherlock glances down at the sheet wound about his nude body to ensure that he hasn’t inadvertently exposed himself. Hm, perhaps John means the improvised toga in general.

He’d given in to the insidious fatigue that had begun plaguing him of late, and returned to bed for a further lie-in after John had left. He’d somewhat underestimated the extent of his exhaustion, however. When the chime of the incoming Skype call had finally roused him, he hadn’t the time to dress properly before scrambling to answer it.

In hindsight, disrobing entirely may have been a poor choice.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” He reassures John offhandedly as he wanders out to the sitting room. “Now, show me to the stream.”

“I didn’t really mean for you.” John mutters, and it all instantaneously clicks together. _Ohh — _ John’s _whinging._ Par for the course. So long as Sherlock pays him minimum mind, John’s grousing will subside relatively quickly. John merely takes a sort of inexplicable pleasure in voicing his complaints more than anything else.

“Look, this is a six.” Sherlock declares pointedly as he settles down at the desk in the sitting room. The doorbell rings downstairs, but he ignores it. Mrs. Hudson can deal with it. “There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.”

As his inexplicable somnolence serves to attest to, he’s been feeling increasingly under the weather; a touch of flu most likely. It’s hardly a surprise really. He’s gone three years without so much as cold, and while it pains him to admit it, that streak was bound to end eventually. John taking over the physical legwork of the less interesting cases allows for Sherlock to conserve his diminished energies, and focus on fighting off whatever dratted virus has managed to gain a toehold over his immune system. All without missing out on anything that may potentially develop into something interesting.

It was really quite an excellent arrangement actually.

“When did we agree that?” John queries incredulously, even as he does precisely as directed.

“We agreed it yesterday. Stop! Closer!”

“I wasn’t even at _home_ yesterday. I was in _Dublin._ ” John persists.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening.” Sherlock pronounces decisively. If John wanted to ensure an optimal amount of say in their discussions, he really should take care not to gallivant off the way he does. It’s hardly as if he actually learned anything especially _useful_ at that medical conference anyways. If Sherlock didn’t know better—  that Sarah requested John attend when another Doctor had reneged at the last moment—  he'd think that it had just been an excuse to avoid him for a weekend. John’s taken to avoiding being home at the flat together for long stretches since… well, _since._

Sherlock likewise avoids thinking about the actual occasion in question as much as possible. The doorbell continues to ring insistently, in a preposterously irritating manner. He swivels his head to shout angrily down at it.

“ _Shut up!”_

“D’you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John’s amused voice ponders through the laptop speakers, entirely unperturbed by Sherlock’s outburst. The fondly indulgent nature of it makes Sherlock’s heart flutter discomfitingly. He shrugs flippantly as he turns back to the screen, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite his attempt to remain aloof.

“I don’t know. How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired”

 

* * *

 

Two innocuous kidnappings, and one semi-dressed standoff later, Mycroft is serving them tea in Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock is both newly clothed and smugly victorious. It’s endlessly amusing how the promise of nudity, either as enticement or offense, seems to always be such an effective bargaining chip.

“What do you know about this woman?” Mycroft questions as he hands over a glossy, but entirely bland surveillance photo of a slim, elegantly dressed woman. Sherlock glances over it with an indifferent eye, and finds it devoid of anything particularly interesting.

He can tell plenty about the photographer from the the angle and framing of the shot, the choice of lens, and the cardstock the photo is printed on. But as for the subject, nothing besides the plainly obvious. “She’s an Alpha. Quite wealthy; either via birth or long-standing success, given the tastefully understated nature of her appearance, which lacks the grandiose excess the nouveau riche. Other than that, nothing whatsoever.”

“Then you should be paying more attention,” Mycroft snipes. “She’s been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent Alpha novelist by having an affair with both her and her beta bond-mate. Separately.”

“You know I don’t concern myself with trivia.” Sherlock parries apathetically as he hands it back. “Who is she?”

“Irene Adler, professionally known as _The Woman_.”

“ _Professionally?_ ” John interjects with confusion.

“There are many names for what she does.” Mycroft explains. “She prefers _Dominatrix_.”

“Dominatrix.” Sherlock echoes thoughtfully, rolling the word and it’s connotations over in both his mouth and mind. Not unbefitting of an Alpha; they do so love dominating others. Though, generally, they also tend to consider any sort of sex-work beneath them; suitable only for their Beta and Omega inferiors.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.” Mycroft panders to him condescendingly.

“Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

“How would you know?” Mycroft quips with a snide smile.

It’s always best to play one’s cards close to the chest with Mycroft, and he’s already given away too much. And so, Sherlock merely lifts his chin and stares back, deliberately affecting an air of affront. It’s the perfect mask from behind which to carefully analyze his brother’s countenance. Mycroft’s never been able to resist an opportunity to preen like a puffed-up patridge over a successful slight.

While he’d always assumed that Mycroft had discovered he and Victor’s _activities_ , it’s altogether possible that he hadn’t after all. He can’t glean _quite_ enough data off of Mycroft at the moment to determine the answer conclusively, but he files the hypothesis away for later consideration.

At the very least, Mycroft’s undeniably _entirely_ oblivious about John.

Which is a blessing frankly; because otherwise John would be rather thoroughly giving them away this very moment. Mycroft hasn’t spared him so much as glance as of yet, but John has gone almost imperceptibly stiff at the insinuation, his eyes anxiously darting between them. He’s quite obviously thinking back on two particularly vigorous days in their flat, and Sherlock’s very enthusiastic _lack_ of alarm throughout.

Moreover, he’s most definitely panicking over the belated realization of just how massively he’d overstepped his social bounds with those two days.

Sharing a heat, entirely unsanctioned, with the Omega dependens of another Alpha wouldn't exactly be considered the wisest of decisions. Much less when that Alpha just so happens to be the British Government. While it may not be technically _illegal_ anymore, Omegas  —  especially those belonging to society’s upper echelons —  are still very much so considered property; and there are any number of financially crippling civil suits that can be filed in regard to any perceived ‘interference’.

Not to mention, of course, the small matter of Mycroft’s access to MI5.

The urge to reach out and place a soothing hand on John’s thigh is overwhelming, but he forces himself to reign it in. While Mycroft isn’t paying John any mind at the moment, if Sherlock so much as _looks_ at him right now, the game will very immediately be up. Considering Mycroft’s likely reaction would be, the gesture would hardly end up being very comforting to John at all. So he keeps his hands and eyes to himself, and listens impassively to Mycroft as he continues blathering on.

“She provides, shall we say, _‘recreational scolding’_ for Alphas and Betas who enjoy that sort of thing, and are prepared to pay for it.” Mycroft elaborates, as if Sherlock isn’t _well_ aware of exactly what a Dominatrix is.

 _Honestly_.

Sherlock is a thirty-two year old man who delightedly dives into the underbelly of London on a near-daily basis; not some sheltered Omega boy just out of the schoolroom. Admittedly, the Alpha-Alpha dynamic is somewhat interesting at least. John certainly seems to agree, if the way that his eyebrows have flown up into his hairline are anything to go by.

He just barely holds his tongue as Mycroft hands him several photographs from her website. Better to maintain Mycroft’s little delusion of the ingénu for the time being.

“Hm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally as he examines the photos. Provocative, without crossing the line into common lewdness. Extremely _expensive_ sex-work then. He supposes everything has it’s price. “And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs.”

“You’re very quick, Mr Holmes.” The Equerry lauds in admiration, and Sherlock can hardly keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“Hardly a difficult deduction. Given the nature of her occupation, it was either that or an illegitimate child. And, being an Alpha, she’s certainly isn’t about to have one of _those_ tucked away, now is she? But the question remains; photographs of whom?”

“A person of significance to my employer. We’d prefer not to say any more at this time.”

Oh, how delightful—  they’re playing _that_ little game again. Sherlock drops the photographs on the table and scowls.

“You can’t tell us anything?” John chimes in with a gentle prod, in Sherlock’s stead, just as expected. He has a certain talent for unobtrusively coaxing information from the reluctant that Sherlock finds both fascinating and terribly useful.

“I can tell you it’s a young person.” Mycroft concedes with a displeased frown, and John merely sips his tea demurely, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “A young _female_ person.” Mycroft amends almost without thought, and Sherlock smirks. Mycroft’s scowl deepens immediately as he realizes immediately how perfectly he’s played into their hands, but he answers Sherlock’s prompts about the photographs readily enough thereafter.

Though John seems terribly distracted by the thought of the photographs in question, Sherlock’s quite thoroughly disinterested. Blackmail? _Boring._ While it’s clearly enormously titillating to some, he doesn’t give a toss what sexual shenanigans the members of the royal family idiotically choose to involve themselves in. When one lives under the microscope of an entire nation, it’s excessively foolhardy to assume you’ll be able to keep that sort of thing hidden without paying through the nose for it. He tells their man as much when he questions whether they’ll take the case.

“What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead: ‘know when you are beaten’.” As he moves to reach for his coat dismissively, Mycroft pipes up.

“She doesn’t want anything.” Sherlock turns back to face him slowly, eyebrows arching delicately with renewed interest. Mycroft raises his own brows in a subtle challenge. “She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour.”

“Oh, a _power play_.” Sherlock feels the electric frisson of excitement that comes with a promising new case start up beneath his skin. Not so boring after all. “A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now _that_ is a Dominatrix!” He beams at John elatedly. “Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

Much later, he’s nursing a bruised cheekbone and failing spectacularly at not fixating on the recalled sensation of John’s body draped over his back again, for the first time since his heat five weeks ago. John’s hardly touched him since the incident, and it’s absurd how desperately Sherlock’s found himself craving any sort of contact. John had him in a _headlock_ , for God's sake, and he'd _still_ grown almost instantly aroused.

Thankfully, John had been too caught up in the moment to realize the temporarily embarrassing tightness of Sherlock’s trousers.

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’s caught off guard when Irene Adler struts into her sitting room. She’s reeking of unsuppressed Alpha pheromones and wearing nothing but a wicked smile, and Sherlock finds himself momentarily stunned. It’s partially owing to his own completely unavoidable biological reaction to her scent—  he is, after all, still an Omega —though thankfully, his suppressants serve to at least dull it’s effect upon him. _Far_ more significantly however, it’s due to the complete and utter _void_ of data encompassing her person.

She’s very literally landed herself in his lap and, for the life of him, he cannot deduce anything more about her than he could from a poorly shot photograph. It’s both entirely disagreeable and strangely compelling all at once.

“Mm, look at those cheekbones; I could cut myself slapping that face,” she purrs down at him with a lascivious smirk. “Would you like me to try?”

Granted, the exaggerated sexual posturing is more than a bit tedious.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?” John cuts in suddenly from the doorway, and his reappearance thankfully saves Sherlock from having to dignify her aggressive overture with a response. He also, quite conveniently, serves as a perfect, guileless standard against which to compare Ms. Adler's exactingly controlled veneer. Sherlock flicks his eyes between the two Alpha’s, and an increasing sense of unease builds in his gut.

Despite himself, he can’t help but admit that she’s terribly… _intriguing_. Even if the thought makes him frown.

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes?” She questions him, and he quirks a curious brow in response. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?“

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” She leans forward with a smile as she continues. “And _somebody_ loves you,” she pauses to cast a pointed smirk in John’s direction. “Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”

When John simply barks a cold laugh in reply, and offers her a napkin to cover herself with, something inside of Sherlock curls up and whimpers. The rejection stings more than he thought it would, and he sneers internally at that pathetic Omega part of himself in an attempt to dampen the feeling.

 _What were you expecting? For him to agree? To say that he loves you and that you’re_ his _? John’s more likely to have an interest in_ her _than in_ you _._

Logically, he’s aware that John’s never exhibited any interest in a fellow Alpha; female or otherwise. But he’s also never met _this_ particular Alpha, and even Sherlock can appreciate that she is, indeed, a _very_ beautiful woman. Despite her prick, she’s everything else that’s always turned John’s head. And he’d certainly demonstrated a decided _lack_ of compunction about accommodating a second cock in the bedroom when he’d been in Sherlock’s bed.

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?” Irene taunts flirtatiously, and Sherlock can’t help but notice the way that John’s eyes struggle to remain trained above her shoulders. With that, he decides he’s had quite enough indeed.

“I don’t think John knows where to look,” he announces abruptly, standing to offer her his coat. _Or rather, where I’d prefer that he_ _didn’t_ _._

“No,” she disagrees, rising compliantly, but then swaggering past him to better expose herself to John’s gaze. “I think he knows _exactly_ where.” The two Alphas stare intently at one another for a moment, John rolling his own shoulders back defiantly as his eye gives the slightest twitch. “I’m _not_ sure about _you_ ,” she adds offhandedly as she finally reaches back to accept the Belstaff, then turns away from John to shrug into it.

“If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.” Sherlock counters with deliberate disinterest, stepping away from her with averted eyes to instead discreetly examine the mantelpiece.

“You _do_ borrow my laptop,” John comments pointedly.

“I _confiscate_ it.” Sherlock corrects. As if he needs John wasting any more time than he already does viewing pornographic material or the ridiculous cat videos forwarded along to him by his sister. Between John’s hours at the clinic; his rugby nights; pints with Lestrade; and the time he spends chasing after strange Beta women in an effort to land himself in their beds, he’d have hardly any time left for Sherlock at _all_ without _some_ sort of strategic interference.

“Your Alpha is a bit bashful, isn’t he, Mr. Holmes.” Irene comments as she wraps his coat more snugly about herself.

“He’s not my Alpha,” Sherlock answers nonchalantly, pleased with how well he manages to keep any note of longing or discontent from his voice. “But then, you knew that already.”

“Oh? Did I?” The corner of her mouth twitches, and she shrugs carelessly as she perches on the sofa. “Well, never mind. We’ve got better things to talk about. Now tell me. I need to know— How was it done?”

“What?” He asks, embarrassingly mystified by the sudden non-sequitur. She perches on the sofa and looks up at them placidly as she pulls off her frightfully uncomfortable looking shoes.

“The hiker. With the bashed-in head. How was he killed?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I meant to stick to a Sunday posting schedule, but alas, it was a long weekend and I was busy driving long-distances and enjoying a mini-break, and so it slipped my mind. Then, of course, I decided yesterday that I didn't like the last few paragraphs and _had_ to rework them before posting. But here we go- back on track! And the rating may have slipped upward a tad. Whoops!

Sherlock stares down at her in complete bewilderment, and is relieved to see that John looks even more befuddled than himself.

“That’s not why I’m here.” He informs her.

“No, no, no,” she waves a dismissive hand. “You’re here for the photographs. But _that’s_ never going to happen, and since we’re here just chatting anyway…”

“That story’s not been on the news yet.” John interjects with the question on both their minds, thankfully saving Sherlock from the embarrassment of having to do so himself. “How do you know about it?”

“I know one of the policemen.” She smiles cheekily. “Well, I know what he likes.”

“Oh.” John remarks somewhat dumbly, and sinks down onto the sofa beside her, an oddly intrigued expression on his face. He asks her about policemen and she responds with something tiresome about detectives and brainy being the new sexy that’s clearly meant to be provocative. Sherlock’s too preoccupied with their nearness, and the little smile John quirks at her quip to care.

It reminds him uncomfortably of the way that John looks at _him_ when he says something clever, and that irritating little Omega inside him seethes over it possessively. It hijacks his mouth, and he finds himself abruptly interjecting.

“Positionofthecar—” He stutters, and they immediately snap to face him with startled frowns. He clears his throat in embarrassment and tries again. “The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.”

“Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?” Irene prompts, settling back against the sofa.

“He wasn’t.”

“You don’t think it was murder?” She asks dubiously, and he sighs heavily, which makes John smile in amusement.

“I _know_ it wasn’t.”

“How?”

“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.”

“Okay, but _how_?” She reiterates, her gaze intently focused up at him and the first hint of irritation creeping into her voice.

 _Excellent_.

She’s playing directly into his hands. He’s perfectly amenable to explaining the case for her in detail in the meanwhile; she’s certainly bright enough that she’ll be able to keep up easily. Whatever keeps her focus on him, and not John. He’s vaguely aware that it’s a strangely irrational urge that’s suddenly gripped him, but he prefers John as far away from her lacquered claws as possible nonetheless. In fact _,_  one of their strategies to uncover her hiding place seems _especially_ favourable now.

“So they _are_ in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no one in.” He locks eyes with John intently, and John inclines his head infinitesimally in response. He places the the bowl on the table and without so much as a glance at Irene, wordlessly leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him as he goes. Good; he’s understood the implicit cue in the request, and knows precisely which of their plans to enact.

Instantly relieved of his illogical paranoia by John’s departure, Sherlock immediately resumes pacing in front of the fireplace as he begins to recount the details of the case from the very start. Rather than showing interest, she frowns up at him in confusion and cuts him off.

“Oh. I—  I thought you were looking for the photos now.”

He frowns back at her in response. He’s doing precisely what she asked; obviously she hasn't quite caught up yet. “No, no. Looking takes _ages_. I’m just going to find them, but you’re moderately clever and we’ve got a moment, so let’s pass the time.” He squats down before her and resumes piecing together the puzzle for her, eager to see if she’s quite as clever as she seems.

“Any moment now, something’s gonna happen,” he questions her, once they’re both fully immersed in the image that he’s conjured with his words. “What?”

“The hiker’s going to die.”

“No, that’s the _result_. What’s going to _happen?_ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, well, try to.”

“Why?”

“Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and _think_.” He sneers at her, in a deliberate attempt to provoke her baser nature; that instinctual Alpha drive to impress an Omega, regardless of her personal proclivities. Anything to get her to really _use_ that mind of hers. She _is_ clever  —  that much is obvious —  but it’s going to waste. “It’s the new sexy,” he parrots her own words back at her sarcastically, and _sees_ the Alpha fire catch alight in her eyes.

“The car’s going to backfire.” She announces triumphantly. He hums in approval, and nods.

“There’s going to be a loud noise.”

“So what?” She arches one perfect eyebrow at him.

“Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance…” He pauses as the fire alarm begins chirping noisily out in the hall. _Perfect timing, John._ He follows Irene’s gaze as it darts worriedly to the mirror above the mantel. “Thank you. On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.”

He strides back to the fireplace and runs his fingers beneath the mantelpiece, searching out the switch he’d suspected the presence of earlier. The mirror glides upward, revealing the safe hidden behind it, and he turns to look mockingly back at her. “Really hope you don’t have a baby in here. I mean, there’s subverting Alpha stereotypes, and then there’s just being terrible at it.”

He calls out to John to switch off the alarm, but it keeps beeping insistently from behind the closed door. He tries again, louder this time, and then finally catches John’s faint reply over the cacophony.

“Give me a minute!”

Satisfied that John’s attempting to address it at least, he turns back to the safe and begins contemplating the keypad. Going by the make, it has it be a six digit code, but only the first number of the code —  a three —  is clear. Could be a date, if she’s followed day-month-year convention, though it’s highly unlikely. Regardless of permutation, none of the numbers with obvious oil deposits correspond easily with any date that one might reasonably extrapolate for a woman of her age range. He shares his reasoning with her in a subtle play to fish a clue out of her, but she doesn't bite.

“I’d tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have.” She smiles disarmingly, and he frowns back at her, which only makes her smile wider. “ _Think_ ,” she prompts him.

And of course, that’s when all hell breaks loose.

 

* * *

 

Two armed men burst into the room; one Beta and an Alpha who’s clearly his superior. The Alpha holds his gun steady and level as he coolly commands Sherlock to place his hands behind his head, and Irene to kneel. Sherlock gapes as a second Beta ushers John into the room at gunpoint. John peers up at him as they enter and sheepishly apologizes.

As Sherlock carefully raises his hands up against his curls, he swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat.

 _Stupid man;_ as if _any_ of this is his fault.

The Alpha barks something at Irene, and the Beta wrangling her shoves her to her knees beside John. Sherlock couldn’t care less about her at the moment, all his focus intent on John, who’s curled in on himself as much as is possible with his hands tucked up behind his head, his breath growing shakier by the moment.

The kneeling, the guns—   _of course;_ it reminds John of Afghanistan. Sherlock needs to do something to deescalate the situation, and _quickly_ , before it sends John into a full-fledged panic attack.

“Don’t you want me on the floor too?” He questions with only the mildest touch of insolence. The Alpha turns his attention on him almost disinterestedly.

“No sir, I want _you_ to open the safe.” Good god, what on earth does the blasted woman have on her phone? A good deal more than just pictures of cavorting Royals if the American’s interest is anything to go by. Has she any sense of self-preservation at all? Well, it’s hardly his problem.

Except apparently it _is._ Or so he discovers when he informs the man that he hasn’t a clue what the code is.

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you,” the Alpha asserts without so much as a trace of uncertainty in his expression, and Sherlock feels the first flutter of trepidation in his gut.

“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know she _didn’t_.” He argues, but the man’s face remains entirely impassive.

“I’m assuming I missed something.” The Alpha informs him curtly. “From your reputation, I’m assuming you _didn’t_ , Mr. Holmes.

“For God’s sake,” John chimes in with an aggravated cry. “ _She’s_ the one who knows the code! Ask _her_.”

“She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”

“Mr. Holmes doesn’t— ” Irene speaks up tentatively, but the Alpha cuts her off with an aggressive promise to paint the walls with her brain matter if she continues.

“Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.” The Alpha inclines his head toward the Beta pointing a pistol the back of John’s head.

“What?” John pales and looks up with a start.

Wordlessly, the Beta behind him presses the muzzle of his gun against the base of John’s skull, and cocks it. John cowers instantly, his eyes going blank as he withdraws within himself. Sherlock’s pulse kicks into high gear, the Omega inside of him going wild with unsuppressed rage and terror at the threat against _his_ Alpha. He’s never felt quite like this—  not even when his own life’s been at risk. He wants nothing more than to tear their throats out with his teeth, but he can’t risk John’s safety.

“I don’t have the code.” Sherlock tries reasoning, forcing as much calm into his speech as possible.

“ _One.”_ The Alpha begins his count.

"I don’t know the code.”

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me. _I don’t know it!_ ” He insists again, frantic now; sheer panic suffusing his voice. It's a level of panic he's never felt before—  utterly consuming. His Omega is absolutely _mindless_ , nearly wailing with terror, and a wave of anxious nausea swells in his gut.  _Not John —  he’s mine, I _need _him; they can’t — _He doesn’t know the damn code, and John is going to—  He sucks in a gulp of air, nearly on the verge of hyperventilation.

John continues to stare blankly down at the floor, white-faced with dread, and the sight makes Sherlock’s blood turn to ice in his veins. They’re going to _kill_ him, and Sherlock will never have told him that he… _Oh god, oh god, oh god._ Damn Mycroft to hell for sending them here and damn Irene Adler for pulling them into her reckless gambit. If anything happens to John, he’ll kill them both.

As soon as he’s finished with these men.

The Alpha merely cocks his head at Sherlock consideringly, his eyes utterly flat and emotionless. “I’m prepared to believe you any second now.”

Sherlock looks to Irene desperately she glances downward pointedly and his brows pull together. His Alpha’s _life_ is at stake; does she not understand the gravity of the situation? Why is she looking… _Oh._

_“Three.”_

“No, stop!” He cries, holding up his palms pleadingly.

The Alpha gestures casually to his subordinate man to hold off. Sherlock suppresses the urge to grimace. He has less desire than ever to play her idle games, but he'll do whatever it takes to save John's life. He pulls up an image in his mind, carefully analysing it as he turns slowly back toward the safe. He can’t afford to make a mistake. With no small degree of apprehension, he reaches out and haltingly punches in six digits.

The safe beeps once, and it’s gears whir noisily as it unlocks. He exhales shakily in relief and allows lets his eyes fall shut for a brief moment as he wills his heart to stop pounding.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” The American commends politely behind him before commanding him to open it. Sherlock glances back discretely at Irene as he twists the latch, and is rewarded with a minute jerk of her head that confirms his suspicions.

 _“Vatican cameos._ ” He announces urgently to John as he swings the door open and ducks in one smooth move. From the corner of his eye, he sees John hit the floor safely—  just as the pistol in the safe above him fires. John’s would-be executioner is struck in the chest and Sherlock’s Omega crows in vicious triumph, even as he disarms the Alpha and violently smashes the butt of the gun into the man’s face. Irene neatly dispatches her own captor in the meantime, and while she’s distracted, Sherlock slips her mobile into his pocket.

He’s not about to let John’s life have been risked in order to _lose._

“He’s dead.” John announces with a slight pant as he finishes checking over the Beta behind him, climbing to his feet shakily.

Good _._ One less thing to take care of, in any case.

Clearly put out by not being the centre of attention, Irene pipes up from her post over the remaining Beta. Keeping her pistol unwaveringly trained on the unconscious man, she grins wolfishly in Sherlock’s direction.

“Thank you. You were very observant.”

“Observant?” John cocks his head and darts his gaze between them.

“I’m flattered.” She continues, her grin growing ever-wider at over John’s ignorance.

“Don’t be.” Sherlock bites back, leveling his best glare at her. _Shut up you avaricious, self-involved narcissist._

The last thing he wants is for John to piece together what, exactly, the code to the safe was. And to summarily make ridiculous assumptions about Sherlock’s interest in another Alpha because of it.

“Flattered?” John tries again, thankfully still at a complete loss.

“There’ll be more of them.” Sherlock ignores the question, trotting out of the room and out the front door. He can’t relax his guard quite just yet. “They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.”

“We should call the police,” John urges as he follows closely on his heels.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, pointing the pistol upward and firing off several shots. Somewhere nearby tyres screech to a halt. “On their way.”

“For God’s sake!” John exclaims exasperatedly at him as they head back into the house.

“Oh shut up. It’s quick.” Sherlock grins down at him, and his stomach flutters pleasantly at the the answering smile that John tries, but fails, to suppress.

They stare at one another for an instant, bright-eyed and breathless with adrenaline. Sherlock feels almost high on the relief of John being safe from harm, and a sudden rush of raw affection overwhelms him. He wants nothing more than to crowd John against the wall and kiss him, but he holds himself back by a thread, fist clenched tightly against his thigh with the effort.

_John Watson, you positively marvellous creature; I can’t believe I almost lost you._

 

* * *

 

Not fifteen minutes later, Sherlock’s fruitlessly struggling against the effect of whatever the hell Irene’s drugged him with and cursing the woman to damnation all over again. The small mercy of it is that the rather sound thrashing she delivers immediately thereafter with her riding crop doesn’t register nearly as much as the slap had. His mind seems to be quite rapidly distancing itself from his body, and as such, the bite of the crop is little more than a vague, indistinct sensation.

In hindsight, he thinks, just before he hits the floor at her feet; perhaps it would have been more prudent to vacate the premises immediately upon procuring her mobile, rather than remaining to gloat.

It’s merely a matter of time before his grip fails to cooperate, and she plucks the phone from the floor with a pleased smile while he flounders helplessly at her feet.

“Oh, no, no, no, no. It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it.” She commands pressing him down against the floor with one bare foot as she strokes the tip of her riding crop over his face. “This is how I want you to remember me. The Alpha who beat you.”

John bursts into the room like an avenging angel, just as she’s abandoned him to his helpless sprawl on the floor to head toward the bathroom window. While John rages at her, Sherlock applies his own attention to attempting to regain control of his limbs. He fails miserably, but forgets to be put out about it when John kneels down beside him, and cups his face between warm, calloused palms. It’s calming and centering, and so undeniably _good_ that he can’t help but whimper.

_His Alpha._

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John’s words filter through to him fuzzily, as if from a distance. Squinting up at him blearily, Sherlock attempts to reply in the affirmative, but it comes out as more of a senseless groan. From somewhere nearby, Irene’s voice cuts in.

“You know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look.”

Sherlock’s stomach sinks instantly. _Nonono._

“For what? What are you talking about?” John asks, those wonderful hands disappear from Sherlock’s face as John stands.

“The key code to my safe.”

“What was it?”

“Shall I tell him?” Irene asks him, glancing down at him with an amused tilt of her head. He tries to shake his head, force himself to his feet, but his limbs refuse to cooperate. He lets his eyes fall closed in surrender as she continues.

“My measurements.”

 

* * *

 

When he starts awake from a drug-induced vision of Irene Adler in his own bedroom, his first consuming thought is of John.

Thankfully, all it takes is a few summoning calls, and the man himself appears in short order; though not before Sherlock manages to accidentally tumble out of bed and onto the floor.

“You okay?” John peers down at him with concern.

“How did I get here?"

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much. You weren’t making a lot of sense” John hesitates for a moment and reaches up to ruffle his hand over the back of his head. “Oh, uh, I should warn you… I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone.”

“Where is she?” Sherlock demands as he fumbles about the room, his limbs still gelatinous and uncooperative, checking every corner and crevice for any trace of her. John humours him briefly, but when he falls to the floor again and drags himself to peer under the bed as well, he clearly decides enough is enough.

“What are you… what—  no, no, no. Back to bed.” John hauls him up from the floor with strong, capable hands and tucks him neatly back into bed. Reassured, Sherlock rubs his face against the sheets happily. _Yes. Bed. John — _his _Alpha. Takes such good care of him. Is John coming to bed too?_ A hand ghosts over his hair—  so gentle that he almost isn’t sure it’s really there. “You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.”

Sherlock frowns into the sheet unhappily as his brain makes muzzy connections. _No —  John isn’t coming to bed. John isn’t _his _._ His Omega mewls dejectedly inside of him, and he determinedly ignores it as he gathers any dignity he has left.

“Of _course_ I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine. I’m absolutely fine,” he lies.

“Yes, you’re great. Now, I’ll be next door if you need me.” John laughs from above him softly, but there’s a strange edge to his voice.

 _I need you now. I_ always _need you. No, no; don’t say that. Can’t say that. Can’t_ want _that. Don’t be a needy, pathetic Omega. John doesn’t like Omegas._

“Why would I need you?” He settles on saying, muttering it into the pillow near unintelligibly.

“No reason at all.” John replies, the edge in his voice even stronger this time.

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he’d almost say it was bitterness.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock comes to again the next morning, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, with a distinctly unpleasant feeling of _offness_ that puts him in mind of the mornings-after of his drug-addled years. He turns and buries his face against the sheets, snuffling against them muzzily. He catches the hint of John’s scent on them and burrows his nose deeper with a pleased purr.

They’re the same sheets that he and John had shared his heat in. He’d found them shoved into the deepest reaches of the upstairs cupboard while searching for an old disguise of his last week, and surreptitiously smuggled them down to slip back onto his bed. John had clearly tried laundering them repeatedly, but nothing _that_ thoroughly defiled could ever really wash entirely clean, and they still smell faintly of his and John’s combined scents.

It’s _delicious._

Without much in terms of conscious thought, he rolls onto his belly, grinding his burgeoning erection against the mattress. He’s still in his trousers from yesterday, and they’re uncomfortably snug, so he reaches down to undo them. He squirms awkwardly beneath the covers as he works them off, kicking them down into a scrunched up ball at the foot of the bed.

He pulls the pillow that smells strongest of John to his face, breathing in the faint scent as deeply as possible. Unceremoniously, he shoves his free hand down the back of his pants and between his legs, reaching past his arsehole to find his slit already slick and wet.

With a gasp he buries two fingers inside himself, and opens a certain full-to-bursting room within John’s wing of his mind palace, letting the carefully stored memories within spill out.

A sturdy, compactly muscled body pressed against his own.

A warm voice, rough with desire, panting as it whispers mesmerizing filth into the arch of his neck.

_John._

He moans as he pushes back frantically on his fingers, imagining that they belong to someone else entirely, then rocks forward to rub his aching cock against the bed again. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he recalls John knelt behind him, resting his head on the small of Sherlock's back.

Those steady doctor’s fingers relentlessly stroking him, outside and in, until Sherlock’s mind had been emptied entirely of any thought besides the desperate, aching desire for _more._

Sweat dampens his hairline while the sound of his own harsh breathing, and the faint squelch of his fingers working his dripping wet entrance fill the quiet room. It’s a memory of John, flushed and breathless, peering up at him with lust-darkened eyes, that finally pushes him over the edge. He bites into the pillow with a cry as he comes, liquid heat spilling out of him to dampen the front of his shorts, and internal muscles clamping down around his fingers. Once he’s ridden out the aftershocks, he slides his hand out, and rolls onto his back to sprawl bonelessly for a moment, panting heavily in an attempt to catch his breath.

Then his brain comes properly back online, hazy recollections of the evening past filtering through, and he freezes.

John. _John was in his room last night._ Had he seen the sheets?

No, hopefully he’d been too occupied with wrangled a decidedly insensible Sherlock into bed to have noticed them. And it _had_ been dark, after all. It’s hardly as if they’re particularly distinctive.

He forces himself up out of bed, removing his soiled pants with a grimace. He kicks them in the general direction of the hamper and pulls on the dressing gown that had been draped over the chair in the corner. Cautiously, he pokes his head out the door, keeping an ear out for any sign of John.

The flat is dead silent, and the light is off in the bathroom; given that John’s never been a late riser, and it’s clearly early afternoon, it’s safe to say that he isn’t in. He shuts the door again softly, and stares consideringly at his coat hanging off the back of it. Yes, The Woman was definitely here last night. He hadn’t dreamt it after all.

Well, no bother. With the stakes so low, and no lives at risk, it’s unexpectedly thrilling to be outwitted for once. He does so enjoy a challenge, and Irene Adler has proven herself to be just that.

He wanders into the bath and twists the taps to start up the shower. The old pipes groan over the task, and he leaves the water to run for a few minutes to heat up. As he waits he relieves himself, then moves to the sink to wash his hands and to retrieve his toothbrush. Leaning over the sink, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and scowls darkly at the sight of smudged lipstick mark to the left of his mouth.

 _Ugh._ He scrubs it off agitatedly, oddly more discomfited than expected by the claiming mark upon his skin. She may _prefer_ other Alpha’s, but he suspects that she’s interested in making an exception.

Irene may be a worthy adversary, but the only sort of thing he’s interested in engaging with her is cerebral.

It’s just his luck, he thinks ruefully as he carefully steps under the now-warm spray; the only Alpha he _is_ interested in just so happens to be the only one who isn’t interested back.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks after the… _fiasco_ with The Woman, he's still feeling awful- worse actually. He was sick again in the morning, and even now that the nausea has abated he feels terribly drained.

Obviously that touch of the flu has well and truly caught up with him.

He’d choked down some toast for breakfast, but then the smell of John's bacon had turned his stomach so thoroughly that he hadn’t been able to keep it down. Fortunately, he’d managed to suppress the urge until he was safely ensconced in the bathroom, the shower running to disguise the sound.

The _last_ thing he needs is John catching wind of him being unwell, and forcing soup and bedrest upon him.

While he will admit there’s a certain allure to that, there's always a chance that a worthwhile case will come along, but John will still insist on keeping him confined to the flat. And it isn't even as if he'll get any good drugs out of it. As such, he’s installed himself in his chair with his mobile and the afghan from the sofa, with plans to engage in a thoroughly indulgent sulk as soon as he’s finished sorting through the contents of his inbox.

“Thanks Mrs. Hudson, I'll see myself up,” Lestrade’s voice carries up the stairs and Sherlock rolls his eyes preemptively. Lestrade _always_ texts or calls him for the very best of cases. If he’s arriving in person, there’s at least a seventy percent chance that the case is less than a five. One that the feeble little minds at Scotland Yard are struggling with, but a five nonetheless.

Well, he has _much_ better things to do with his time; he’s hardly in a mood to charitably assist the man still carrying around a humiliating video of him bumbling about pathetically under the influence of The Woman’s sedative. He can just be on his merry little way.

When Lestrade appears in the doorway, Sherlock opens his mouth to inform him of such, just as John calls out from the kitchen.

“Come on in Greg! I’m just finishing the washing up, but his Nibs hasn’t anything on.” Sherlock huffs with resentment and curls deeper into his chair. _Insolent little man-_ why ever does he keep him around? John continues on obliviously. “Do you fancy a cuppa? I was just about to put the kettle on.”

Ah yes, that’s why.

“Thanks, mate. That would be great.” Lestrade calls back, settling down across from Sherlock in John’s chair. Sherlock pulls his dressing gown tighter about himself with one hand and pointedly ignores him.

“So, ah, there’s this case,” Lestrade embarks in an overly casual manner, shifting a file folder back and forth between his hands. “Posh bloke, Philip Cavendish; his maid found him dead in the pool on Monday morning at about nine. He’d been out on the town with his brother the night before. Driver brought him home around eleven. Butler says he served him a nightcap in the lounge, and then was excused for the night. Figured it was the usual drunken dip gone wrong. Real cut and dried.”

“And?” Sherlock raises a brow without deigning to look up from his mobile. “Some idiot accidentally drowns himself and you’re coming to me with it? While I’ve always marvelled at your lot’s lack of investigative ability, I believe that, on this occasion, the course of events were suitably idiotic enough so as to be easily solved- despite the ongoing fumblings of Scotland Yard.”

Of course, there’s obviously something more to it, or Lestrade wouldn’t be here. He’s intrigued despite himself, but he may as well make the DI work for it a bit.

“Cheers for that,” Lestrade huffs longsufferingly. He turns as John emerges from the kitchen juggling three mugs of tea, and gratefully accepts one. “But that’s just it- we _thought_ it was a simple one. But then the autopsy report came back this morning; and there wasn’t any water in his lungs. He was  _asphyxiated._   _Hours_ before he ended up in the water, according to the approximate time of death.”

Sherlock looks up at that. Lestrade holds the file out to him hopefully.

“And this morning? His Omega was kidnapped.”

 

* * *

 

It takes far longer than acceptable to leave the flat; John insisting that Sherlock finish his tea and the sandwich that he presents him with before they can leave.

Honestly, it’s hardly as if he’ll drop dead if he misses a meal.

Despite being the one to have requested assistance in the first place, Lestrade is no help whatsoever, so he’s left with no choice but to choke down the apparently mandatory meal. Once he’s gotten it over with and changed out of his dressing gown and pyjamas, a short cab ride to New Scotland Yard has them holed up in Lestrade’s office reviewing the entirety of the case files.

There’s no crime scene to investigate as of yet; the Cavendish Omega having been pulled off the street and into an commonplace grey sedan with obscured plates whilst shopping. The ransom note that arrived at the house shortly thereafter was similarly unremarkable: typed and printed on ordinary printer paper, delivered by a teenage boy who’d received anonymous instruction online. Whoever was responsible had taken care to remain as untraceable as possible.

Sherlock sorts through the stacks of documents, bagged evidence and photographs cluttering Lestrade’s desk, slowly building up a picture in his mind. Philip Cavendish; Alpha, forty-five, overall good health, died of asphyxiation sometime around midnight, prior to his body being discovered on Monday morning. Relatively high amounts of zopiclone in his system, in addition to a blood alcohol level a mere hair below that of legal intoxication. Bonded to Marie Cavendish, Omega, thirty, for the past nine years.

His rummaging comes to a sudden halt when he flips a photograph over to find a familiar face smiling up at him. His eyes dart to the label and he grimaces.

Marie Cavendish… _née Beaufort_ , apparently _._

Ah, well. Something like this was _bound_ to happen sooner or later, given the propensity of the wealthy for attracting trouble.

Frowning down at the pretty blonde Omega, Sherlock taps his thumb against the edge of the photograph as he contemplates whether to notify Lestrade of the acquaintance. He discards the notion almost immediately. He never gave a fig about her one way or another, but there’s a possibility that Lestrade might take him off the case because of it. No, he’ll definitely leave that little tidbit unmentioned. He tosses the photo aside decisively and continues on.

The Cavendish's have no children. Highly unusual for an Alpha-Omega couple of their social standing who’ve been bonded so long, but unsurprising, given the frequency and duration of Philip’s business trips abroad. It would be incredibly difficult to sustain an Omega pregnancy to term with such extended separations from their bondmate. As he’s skimming over one of the household staff’s statements something out of place finally catches his eye.

“According to this maid, Marie Cavendish starting exhibiting some unusual behavior a few weeks ago.” He announces, waggling the page in Lestrade’s direction. “She’s spent a gratuitous amount of time in bed as of late, displayed a markedly decreased appetite and has been frequently sick.”

Something…pings in Sherlock’s mind as he reads. There’s something… something just out of his reach. Like an itch, almost, that he just needs to find the right spot to scratch.

_What is it, what is it?_

“Hm… there are several drugs or toxins that result in those symptoms if administered in high doses. If this was planned in advance, whoever is responsible could have begun gradually dosing her, in order to ensure she was docile and easy to snatch once her husband was dispatched. If— ”

“I think it’s a little more obvious than that,” John interrupts him offhandedly with a small snort of laughter.

“What?” He freezes, turning to John in surprise. The doctor is cradling his chin thoughtfully in one hand as he considers the evidence scattered across the desk, but when Sherlock turns to him, he glances up and smiles. Sherlock ignores the odd flutter that the smile triggers in his belly, drawing his eyebrows together and frowning instead.

John can’t _possibly_ have noticed something that he himself had missed. _Obvious?_ No, it most certainly is _not_.

“Is it?” He demands, snappishly.

“Well, _obviously_ she’s pregnant,” John explains indulgently, smiling all the wider with his teasing use of what _he_ claims to be Sherlock’s favourite word. “Surely _that_ particular condition has proven relevant enough to crime to escape deletion,” he chuckles. He takes the the maid’s statement from Sherlock and places it on the desk, dragging the print-out of Marie’s personal agenda next to it.

“Ah, let’s see here… The maid mentions she started noticing the change in behaviour around, ah… four weeks ago? And then this appointment here, less than a week after that,” John taps a finger against one of the calendar pages. “It’s the only one that doesn’t have an address or any other details about who it’s with. All it says is ‘doctor’. She didn’t want her Alpha or any of the staff to recognize something particular about it. If you can get access to the records attached to her NHS number, I’d wager they show that she visited an Omega clinic. Adding up all that, _and_ the fact that her scent cLeary hasn’t changed yet… I’d say she’s likely just shy of the second trimester. Ten to twelve weeks, maybe?”

“Oh!” Sherlock snatches the papers out from under John’s hands and scans them. “Yes, _yes,_ of course! Brilliant, John! Absolutely brilliant.” He exclaims excitedly as it all begins to come together in his mind. There’s still the slightest niggling sense of having overlooked something however. He shuffles through the papers with intent focus, examining them thoroughly for anything he might have overlooked.

He’s missing something—  he _knows_ he’s missing something. _Fatigue, nausea, decreased appetite…what is it, what IS it?_

Just like that comes to him, and his blood runs cold.

_Oh._

His eyes fall shut as the bottom of his stomach drops away. _Oh god._

He allows himself a moment of complete and utter panic before he shakes himself internally. He can’t… He cannot give this-this—  _presumption_ the attention that it requires at the moment. With an immense effort, he shoves into a corner in his mind and refocuses himself with determination on the matter at hand.

He opens his eyes and begins frenetically flipping through the collection of statements and Cavendish family records. Now that he has _the_ key detail, the rest falls neatly into place in blessedly short order. While it had seemed so promising at first, it was really hardly a six. If it hadn’t been for his momentary distraction, he’d have solved it even sooner.

“She’s not been kidnapped. It’s a ruse to distract from her Alpha’s murder, and to cast the suspicion off of her. She was the one who killed Philip, and his brother helped her cover it up.” He barks, slapping the desktop decisively before pushing away and reaching for his coat and gloves.

“What?!” Lestrade chokes on his coffee mid-sip. “How the hell— Come on, you _know_ that you have got to give me more to go on than _that_.”

“But is so _simple!_ Why do I _constantly_ need to spell everything out for you?”

“You’re a consultant, aren’t you? Well, I’m _consulting_ you, you great git —  not just providing you a spot of afternoon entertainment. Hold off a mo—  ” Lestrade fumbles in his pocket for his mobile, then sets it on the desk and fiddles about with it to start it recording. “Christ, this is going to be a proper mess isn’t it? It always is with you posh types.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes gratuitously at that, but tosses his things over the arm of the small sofa and moves to the opposite side of the desk regardless. He arranges a number of the items before him into some semblance of order before starting off slowly, as if laboriously elaborating something to a primary schooler.

“Philip Cavendish has been abroad in Dubai for the last several months on business. He only just returned two weeks ago. Nothing in these records indicates any trips home in the meantime, or of Marie visiting there. If she’s ten to twelve weeks along, it's not very likely to be his, now is it? Managing his family’s interests as he did, I assume that Philip was intelligent enough to manage basic mathematics. Immaculate conception is out—  that particular excuse has really only worked once. So then who’s the sire? Today’s Omega’s _appear_ to have a large degree of freedom, but for most — especially for those of this social standing —that independence is really no more than just that; a facade. Trust me, I would know.” He pauses for a breath.

“All of their social interactions in particular are carefully monitored; no one wants a cuckoo in the nest after all. Just look at her calendar for goodness sake— ” He gestures to the array of brightly-coloured pages. “It accounts for nearly every moment of her day, and is fully accessible by her husband, his brother, and the entire staff? That’s not for the sake of _convenience._ That’s _surveillance._ Now, if despite all this, she’d somehow managed a momentary liaison, the pregnancy would hardly stick. The fact that she’s still carrying the child is evidence in and of itself—  whoever sired it has been present often enough to ensure the continuation of the pregnancy. Hence, _not_ a momentary encounter, but a prolonged affair. So again, the question is _who_? _Who_ has free enough access to a wealthy man’s Omega to be able to carry on an affair?”

Lestrade frowns into the brim of his coffee cup thoughtfully. _Dear God, it’s a wonder criminals aren’t running amok in the streets if this is the best Scotland Yard has to offer._ He pulls forward the page of staff ID photos.

“One of the staff maybe? They’re mostly Beta women, but there's the Butler, and then two Beta men and three Alphas on the security detail.”

 _“No, no, no!”_ Sherlock growls in vexation. “You’re thinking far too _middle class_! These people live in an _entirely_ different world. A world where it’s as commonplace to request sterility in household staff as it is milk in one’s tea. You may not be able to demand _literal_ eunuchs anymore, but there are far less damaging procedures available to those more attached to a large paycheck than their fertility. You could test every Alpha and male Beta amongst them if you’d like, but I can guarantee that not one of the staff that have access to the Cavendish home will be capable of siring progeny. So again —  _who_? The answer to that, once again, lies right here in front of us.”

John and Lestrade gawp at him blankly; clearly dumbfounded by the revelation of de facto modern-day eunuchs. Sherlock gestures again at the papers in front of them pointedly, and they both commence squinting at them in befuddlement. Sherlock sighs heavily, and spreads the calendar print-outs across the table with an irritated swoop of his hand. He jabs pointedly at one colourful block of time after another.

“Shopping _with Eddie,_ polo match _with Eddie,_ banquet _with Eddie._ Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, _Eddie._ ” Pulling a photograph from the pile, he slaps it down and pointedly spins it about to face Lestrade. " _Edward James Cavendish;_ Philip’s charming, gregarious, positively _dishy_ little brother. He’s also an Alpha, fourteen years Philip’s junior—  only a year older than Marie—  well known amongst the elite set as somewhat of a playboy. He’s been staying at the Cavendish home since Philip's departure to the Gulf. The very picture of the devoted younger sibling; loyally attending to his brother’s home and bonded in his extended absence. Terribly quaint. Of course, going by her calendar, he’s practically spent every waking hour with her over the past several months. Which seems a bit excessive for simple fraternal duty, doesn't it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, plowing on with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

“No, they're obviously sleeping together. The pregnancy was undoubtedly accidental; no one in their right mind would get themselves into such a situation purposely, but contraceptives aren’t always entirely effective. In any case, she discovered that she’s carrying her brother-in-law's child shortly before her husband was due home. Not enough time for them to deal with the situation without arousing suspicion, even if they wanted to. Which obviously they didn’t, because they’re _in_ _love,”_ he sneers the pronouncement of sentiment with a derisive curl of his lip. Lestrade peers at him with a strange expression while John stares fixedly down at the desktop, as if avoiding his eyes.

“Absolutely _none_ of this is obvious, mate.” Lestrade scoffs good naturedly up at him. “And I know it’s not really your area, but people _can_ have an affair without being in love y’know.”

“Of course I know that.” Sherlock replies waspishly. “But if they _didn’t_ fancy themselves in love, they’d hardly have gone into all this trouble to keep the child.”

“How do you know they wanted to keep the baby? Supposing that you're right about her killing him and the brother helping cover it up—  which, let’s face it; of course you are.” Lestrade sighs and briefly looks heavenward. “Could be that Philip found out about it, flew into an Alpha rage, and then she killed him accidentally in defense. ”

Sherlock stares at him in “Good Lord; how on _earth_ did you pass your detective's examinations? If they didn’t care about the fetus, they would have just let Philip discover the pregnancy in due course. An Alpha of Philip Cavendish’s social standing would never fly into a rage and _attack_ anyone. Besides it being scandalously uncouth, it would also serve as an announcement to the world at large that he’d been cuckolded —  a double blow the blow to the notorious Alpha pride. No; once he discovered Marie’s pregnancy, it would have been a simple matter of him to packing her off to some discreet Omega ‘retreat’ abroad. _Bye, bye baby — _ problem solved.”

John frowns consideringly, then begins nodding slowly in agreement. “That… actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Yes, thank you John.” Sherlock shoots him bright smile. “If they wanted to _keep_ the baby however, they would have needed to act quickly — before her scent changed. Now, if Philip were to say...  _die_ suddenly, Marie’s custody would automatically be transferred to Philip’s eldest living Alpha or Beta relative. Philip’s father being dead, that would be his current heir: darling brother Edward. So they hatched a plan that would enable them to be together, her to carry their child to term, and for Eddie to inherit the entirety of the family wealth. Everyone wins! Well, except for Philip, obviously. One really must admire their efficiency. Of course, it would have been substantially _more_ admirable had they executed it less sloppily.” He purses his lips and taps the sealed copy of the ransom note.

“Obviously, something went awry with their original plan. They aren’t complete imbeciles— they’d have planned for it to look like an accident, leaving them free of suspicion. The staged kidnapping was a failsafe enacted when things went wrong; meant to throw off any suspicion in the immediate aftermath, painting her as a victim, rather than a potential perpetrator. Once she’s located, and I’m able to speak to her, I’ll be able to tell you what happened.”

Lestrade taps his phone to switch off the recording and puffs out a disquieted gust of air. “A posh Omega, pregnant with another Alpha’s child, murdering her billionaire bondmate? And the other Alpha involved is his _brother?_ It’s like a bloody soap opera,” He groans as a thought occurs to him. “God, the press’ll have an absolute _field day_ with this once this gets out.”

“I’d have thought that after so many years of police work, you’d be well accustomed to the absolute absurdity of crimes of passion.” Sherlock arches an amused brow.

“Truth is stranger than fiction.” John volunteers in turn with a cheeky grin, and Lestrade groans anew at the platitude.

“Quite.” Sherlock agrees with a smirk. “Well, that's all for now,” he declares with a decisive clap of his hands. “I'm off then.”

“What?” Lestrade blinks and sputters. “Sherlock! You can't just—  “

“Very important business to take care of—  afraid it can't wait!” Sherlock insists, cutting Lestrade off as collects his coat from where he’d thrown it. “And anyways, you’ll have more than enough of that dull paperwork you love so much to occupy you in the meantime.”

“I will?” Lestrade fixes Sherlock with a wide-eyed look of tentative hope, and Sherlock huffs in amusement as he shrugs into the Belstaff.

“Yes. You’ll need to bring in Edward for further questioning—  wherever she is, he knows. Pretend that it’s part of the investigation into the ‘kidnapping’.” He yanks his gloves on impatiently as he enumerates further tasks for the DI that will buy himself the time to deal with his own little _issue_ , without having to give up the case entirely. “You also need to secure warrants for their mobile records, and the entirety of the Cavendish home, including any security footage of the premises.” He pauses in the doorway, and turns back waving his gloves in a pointed gesture of recollection. “Oh! And a warrant for Edward Cavendish's flat as well.”

“Wait,” John interjects with confusion. “How do we know that Edward has his own flat?”

Sherlock leans against the doorframe and rolls his eyes dramatically. “He’s the thirty-one year old playboy heir to a massive shipping fortune. Did you expect he’d take conquests home to his mother? Of _course_ he has his own flat. Possibly a penthouse, more likely a high-end luxury unit in one of the newest towers along the Thames. If nothing comes up under his name, check the company’s holdings,” he suggests pointedly to Lestrade, who’s now frantically scribbling notes. “These types never like to pay tax if they can help it.”

Keeping his focus on Lestrade with a deliberate air of harried irritation, he casually avoids John’s gaze as he tries to think of a way to ensure that he'll stay here with Lestrade for at least a short while. He can’t very well take care of what he needs to do with John trailing along after him.

_Think Sherlock, think._

_Oh! Of course!_ _Obvious._

“We’ll also need access to Marie’s NHS records to confirm her pregnancy. Between that and the evidence of the affair that we’ll undoubtedly uncover, it should be a simple matter to request and conduct a prenatal paternity test. John can help you write up the medical bits,” He looks to John expectantly for confirmation, and John nods agreeably, pleased as always to be useful.

_Perfect._

“Text me when everything is in place!” He tosses back over his shoulder, looping his scarf about his neck as he swoops away, before either of them can question him any further.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock makes a very startling deduction about he and John’s shared heat.

Two hours later finds him encamped in the loo at Baker Street, biting his thumb anxiously as he awaits results of his own. John arrived home no more than a half hour ago; worriedly inquiring after his well-being through the door.

“Sherlock?” He’d called, a note of concern in his voice. “Are you okay? Did you… Did you actually dash off like that because you were feeling poorly?” Sherlock had ignored him, thoroughly engaged at the time with the fifth of six different tests that had been available on the shelf at the chemists. “You might have just said- Lestrade would have understood, you know. Can I get you anything?”

Several minutes of continued silence were all it had taken for John to admit defeat and retreat with a sigh. Though only after announcing the presence of tea on the floor outside, should Sherlock require it, as well as his intention to head upstairs for a kip.

The results of that test had been unacceptable anyways, just like the previous four before it. And so, after carefully verifying John’s absence, Sherlock had opened the door in order to snatch the promised mug and set to work preparing for the sixth.

Now, perched on the closed toilet lid, he venomously curses all six of the small plastic sticks lined up along the sink in front of him. The alarm on his phone beeps, and he blows out a sharp, steadying stream of air before reaching out to flip the last of the tests over. The results are positively _hateful._

Or rather, he supposes, hatefully _positive_.

He’d like to be able to delude himself with thoughts of false results, but that had become increasingly less likely with each successive test. No, it appears that he's been suffering from something markedly more significant than the flu. He drags both hands up and fists them in his hair and focuses on breathing evenly.

Pregnant.

Gravid.

_Breeding._

For the past six weeks, there has been a bundle of cells growing inside of him that is an amalgamation of himself and John, and that’s…simultaneously the most terrifying and strangely _marvellous_ thing that he can imagine.

He ruffles his curls violently with both hands and tries desperately to think _._

It’s unexpected, to say the least. After the havoc he’d wreaked on his reproductive system by suppressing his cycle for so many years, it really shouldn’t have been _possible_. And they’d used protection every time except the first knotting. The odds of his body actually having released a viable ovum, and for them to have successfully conceived during that _one_ coupling were frankly astronomical.

_Bloody buggering hell._

In hindsight, his reaction to John bringing home his newest girlfriend du jour two weeks ago should have made him realize it. While he’s never cared for any of John’s women, there had been something _different_ about it this time. He hadn’t been able to rationalize what about her had filled him with such a possessive rage. While he’d never been one to hold himself back, he hadn’t wanted risk destabilizing he and John’s newly tenuous status quo.

In the end, he’d resorted to fleeing the flat with some flimsy excuse about a nonexistent case, to prevent himself from starting a row.

It's obvious now; everyone knows that Alphas are possessive of their Omegas, but it’s often overlooked that the instinct goes both ways. Regardless of bond status, the hormones of pregnancy cause breeding omega’s to be more possessive of the sire. He’d even been jealous of John interacting with _Irene,_ for pity’s sake; another _Alpha_!

There were other signs of course. He’s quite well informed of them now, having spent the entirety of the cab ride to the chemists researching them on his mobile. The ones he’d indifferently attributed to illness; the tedious fatigue; the rampant nausea; his newfound aversion to an array of various foods and smells— _especially_ that of John’s bacon in the mornings.

If he weren’t already so inconsistent in his eating habits,  _John_ might have been the one to make the realization. Which is a particularly horrific scenario to imagine. The other signs he’d disregarded entirely up until they were neatly itemized in bullet form over an appalling pink background on his mobile screen, having so long divorced his mind from the lesser discomforts of his transport.

He supposes that he should just tell John.

He should march up the stairs this very moment, burst into John’s bedroom and plainly announce that they are, however unexpectedly, expecting a child.

Yes. He’ll do just that.

He springs from his seat and, crossing the room in two long strides, determinedly reaches for the doorknob. As he does, however, he vividly recalls the morning that his heat— and all it’s wonderfully disinhibiting hormones with it— had finally subsided. He freezes, his hand dropping to his side before he retreats back to the toilet. He sinks back down onto the lid, his heart squeezing in his chest at the memory of that morning, and their painfully stilted conversation over the breakfast table.

 

* * *

 

He’d awoken to find John watching him, and the moment that their gazes had met, the unease had struck; not unlike a punch to the gut. John had stared at him in wide-eyed silence, and he hadn’t known what to say himself, so it had seemed better to say nothing at all. So he’d clutched the edges of the topsheet tightly against himself and fled to the loo without a backward glance.

While the hot water had beaten down on him in the shower, he’d painstakingly scrubbed two days of sweat and bodily fluids from his skin, and tried not to panic. He’d failed utterly. The preposterous idea he’d conjured up during his heat— of them establishing some sort of _arrangement—_ had suddenly seemed all the more pathetically fanciful.

John had never expressed any interest in the traditional role of an Alpha. He’d said as much himself immediately prior to their copulation; _‘it_ _wasn’t worth the fuss’._ Just because _Sherlock_ had suddenly revised his stance on the merits of indulging in estrus, that didn’t mean that John would choose to cater to his desires. And Sherlock certainly wasn’t interested in engaging in it with anyone else.

If John were to discover Sherlock’s piteous infatuation _,_ well, it was entirely possible that it he would be discomfited enough by it to move out. And Sherlock would do anything to ensure John’s continued presence. He’d decided then and there that he would carefully archive his newly collected data regarding sexual desire and copulation away in his mind palace, and immediately resume his appropriate suppressant dosage. That would resolve the matter neatly, and keep John where he belonged: at 221B.

As he’d exited the bath and returned to his bedroom to dress himself, he’d carefully constructed a simple, forthright statement of reassurance: _While I greatly appreciated your assistance with this matter, please rest assured that I do not harbour any illusions regarding your feelings for me._

Of course, by the time he’d actually managed to force himself out into the kitchen to face John, he’d been struck dumb anew.

John had made them a full English, and after the startlingly vigorous activities of the previous two days, Sherlock had found himself surprisingly famished. Once they’d both devoured their meals, they’d sat, awkwardly sipping their tea and studiously avoiding eye contact. Sherlock had been mentally reciting his statement, in an attempt to galvanize himself, when John had broken the silence.

 _“This doesn’t change anything between us Sherlock. You know that, right?”_ He’d said, tentatively meeting Sherlock’s gaze. _“You can just… delete it, yeah?”_

Which Sherlock understood very well to _actually_ mean: _‘While we just engaged in rather a lot of very enthusiastic intercourse, I do indeed still prefer woman, and would like to ensure that you do not misconstrue our circumstances. Or ever bring it up again.’_

And so he’d agreed.

He’d have agreed to anything that John wanted that morning; whatever it took to keep him from leaving.

 

* * *

 

He’d resumed his suppressants that very morning, and while he found himself unable to _delete_ the memories entirely, he’d tucked them behind a locked door within his mind palace and resolved not to think of it any further. As could be expected, there had been several tense days about the flat, but gradually they’d begun slipping back into their old familiar ways, until it was as though nothing had ever happened.

Except... The lock on that door seems to be hopelessly faulty, because Sherlock has been continually bombarded by reminders.

Despite the dosage of his suppressants, which have always have tidily kept those sort of thoughts at bay, he finds himself quite helplessly aroused every time John so much as _smiles_ at him. Whenever John forgets himself and absentmindedly touches Sherlock— despite his obvious efforts to avoid any sort of physical contact since it had happened. Whenever John licks his lips in that habitual manner of his and it sends a bolt of hot lust through Sherlock's belly.

For the very first time in his life, he’s found himself tempted by the small row of blue pills in his suppressant pack. Considering taking them as prescribed, allowing himself to go into a mild heat on schedule, so that John might be convinced to... _assist_ him once again. And every time, he cuts those thoughts off as abruptly as they arise, thoroughly disgusted with himself. Contrary to his own inclinations, John had obliged Sherlock in a moment of need, and rather than being grateful, Sherlock was scheming as to how he might persuade him into doing so again? He was behaving no better than the worst stereotype of a grasping, manipulative Omega.

But he can't help but think about those lips; against his skin, against his mouth… _around his cock_.

John can be in the midst of something as innocuous as making tea or washing dishes, and Sherlock needs only look over to find himself recalling those small, confident hands pressing him down and taking him apart. He’s spent more time holed up in his bedroom over the past several weeks, breathlessly wanking, than he’d ever done as a teenager. It's _absurd_.

And now _this_.

It’s safe to say that it’ll be quite impossible to forget about what happened between them when he has the very product of it developing inside his belly.

Unless, of course, that ceases to be the case.

A prolonged absence of the sire’s scent (or that of their close blood relstions), during Omega pregnancy results in spontaneous termination in ninety-seven point eight percent of cases. After the second trimester the risk, as well as that of stillbirth, diminishes to less than ten percent— though chances of premature delivery remain high. While it's a terrible risk for Omegas unwillingly separated from their mate and family by circumstance, it’s also the most commonly, and easily, pursued route for Omegas who find themselves in an undesired condition.

How humiliating; to find oneself in a situation that’s generally the purview of insipid sixteen-year-olds who neglected to utilize contraceptives.

Nevertheless, a momentary call to Mycroft, and immediate arrangements would be made for him to depart Baker Street, for just long enough to… resolve the issue. And then, upon his return, he could could resume life as usual, with John none the wiser.

Involving Mycroft in the matter seems especially loathsome, however.

He'd never hear the end of it, and in any event, there is an unacceptably high possibility that Mycroft will be disturbed enough by the situation to exercise his authority as Sherlock’s Alpha Familiae, and forbid him from returning to Baker Street or continuing to live independently at all.

Of course, _John_ could leave instead.

Despite having had numerous sexual partners, and relationships, John has never bonded. He has, in fact, never openly expressed a desire for offspring. Conclusion: There is a distinct possibility that, upon being informed, John will be amenable to a temporary separation, without any need for Mycroft’s involvement. It would be the less effective of the two options however, given that John's scent is quite established within the flat itself. And if were John to leave under those circumstances… well, he might not come back.

Weighing the two in his mind, both choices seem equally aberrant.

Sherlock frowns and looks down in surprise to where his hand has instinctively come to rest, in a protective gesture, over his abdomen. _How curious._ Despite being little more than an over-developed cluster of cells, the embryo is already clearly exerting influence over his thought processes, via hormones, in order to ensure it’s survival. What an incredibly remarkable evolutionary trait. He cautiously acknowledges the astoundingly foreign, but entirely undeniable, desire coursing through him.

He wants to protect his baby.

Immediately, an image of John’s warm blue eyes springs to his mind, and he revises the thought. No; _their_ baby _._ He strokes a hesitant hand gently over the still-flat plane of his stomach and allows himself to imagine it.

While it's eyes have not yet developed, they may just be a match for John's once they do. They're likely to have Sherlock's hair; both curls and darker shades being dominant traits. But the rest…

Perhaps they'll share the Holmes intellect, or the Watson temper, or whatever it is that makes John so very… _John_.

His and John's child; an endless, entirely _unpredictable_ experiment, with limitless, constantly changing variables. The very _idea_ of it is captivating. Sherlock is overcome by the sudden realization that he doesn’t just want to _protect_ it— see it safely through to full gestation, and then tidily hand it off to be someone else’s problem.

No; he wants to _keep_ it.

A small part of John that he'll always have: regardless of John’s platonic feelings for him, regardless of whether he eventually tires of life with Sherlock and leaves.

An idea begins to take root in his mind. Perhaps if he were to… But then again, John _is_ a doctor; he might still identify Sherlock’s condition on his own. It's really only due to Sherlock’s terrible habits that he hadn’t already. If Sherlock wants to be the one to deliver the news, _and_ control when he does it, some sort of measures will have to be taken. He reaches for his mobile and begins scanning through all the available data he can find. He needn’t discontinue his suppressants immediately— it's apparently common practice for newly expectant carriers to gradually reduce dosage over time, to prevent extreme hormonal fluctuations.

Between the suppressants and a diligent use of scent neutralizers, he could conceivably conceal the pregnancy for as long as five months— well into the second trimester.

John is possessed of a fairly strict moral compass; that would likely prevent him from making a decision that would result in the loss of the fetus at such an advance stage of gestation. While there is a possibility that he will feel resentment toward Sherlock regarding the deception, the child would be safe. Though John _has_ always been fairly susceptible to Sherlock’s arguments; if he chooses the right time to broach the subject and presents it well, it should be quite simple to argue his case for keeping the child.

Yes; that’s precisely what he’ll do. It’s a perfect plan, really.

Of course there’s the small added benefit that, should Sherlock be successful, Mycroft will be positively _outraged_.

If everything goes according to plan, by the time Mycroft finds out, he’ll be unable to take any sort of negative action. Not without drawing considerably more attention to the situation than he would desire. The thought leaves Sherlock positively _gleeful_. He pats his stomach companionably.

 _Excellent job little one. You and I are going to get on_ famously _._

His mobile vibrates suddenly in his hands and he sighs as he looks down, expecting another of Irene’s tedious messages. She’s been tirelessly persistent in her pursuit. He’s pleasantly surprised to find, however, that it’s Lestrade.

Infinitely better; refocusing on the case is just what he needs to get his mind back on track. As he reads, the phone buzzes again. Then again, and again.

 

 

 

> _Meeting Edward at the Cavendish house shortly for further questioning._
> 
> _As always, you were right. He has a flat in Docklands._
> 
> _Just waiting on the judge to approve the warrant._
> 
> _Care to join me you mad bastard, or are you too busy?_

He grins as he types in his reply.

 

 

 

> _I’ll meet you there. -SH_

 

* * *

 

John isn’t terribly pleased about being awoken so abruptly, muzzily squinting up at Sherlock from his pillow when the detective gently jostles his shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock hisses excitedly, “We need to leave for the Cavendish house at once!”

“Whaa?” John mumbles in response, rubbing his eyes and looking deliciously sleep-rumpled. An overwhelming desire swells up suddenly inside Sherlock, to climb into the bed, tuck his face into John’s neck, and breathe in his warm, comforting scent. Instead, he forces himself to take a step back, looping his scarf around his neck to occupy his hands while he quashes the urge ruthlessly.

“You need to get up! Lestrade has arranged to meet with Edward Cavendish at the Cavendish house— the actual scene of the crime! We need to leave immediately if we want to join him. Quickly, John!”

“Alright, alright! I’m up! Just give me a moment,” John pushes himself upright and scrubs his hands over his face and hair to rouse himself properly. Sherlock watches as he hurriedly stretches, paying special attention to his bad shoulder, then shrugs into the jumper tossed over the foot of the bed. A thought materializes without warning in Sherlock’s mind, and he blinks rapidly, momentarily shell-shocked by it.

_I am having this man’s child._

His Omega preens with delight, pleased to finally be fulfilling its instinctual purpose. Pleased with it’s strong, _virile_ Alpha, who managed to breed him in only one mating. He shifts from foot to foot disconcertedly as he tries to rein it in, but finds it far more difficult than usual to subdue it.

 _Yes, yes, fine; he’s very virile, and we’re_ very _pregnant. Happy?_ He concedes, and his Omega practically _trills_. He fights the urge to outwardly roll his eyes at the reaction, and the persistent thrum of _lustjoypridewantneed_ toward John that follows. He doesn’t have _time_ for this right now, not when there’s a case at hand! Giving his head a firm shake, he pivots on his heel and bounds down the stairs to the waiting cab.

When he allows the warm glow brought on by his awareness of John at his heels to linger on unextinguished, he tells himself that it’s nothing more than a small concession to his Omega.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had a busy weekend with family, so I couldn't quite get around to posting. Also, apologies in advance for this...unexpectedly case-centric chapter? It's just sort of where the story naturally went. This is growing much longer and meatier than I originally intended, (and Irene hasn't even made her reappearence just yet!) though I'm surprised to find I'm enjoying it. I think I finally understand that old writers complaint about the characters and plot having a mind of their own! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading along, leaving kudos and commenting! Your interest and enjoyment makes my day and keeps me plugging along!

Lestrade is waiting for them outside the Cavendish house when they arrive, leaned up against the hood of his panda, leafing through a folder in his hands. Sherlock leaps out of the cab as soon as it pulls to a stop, leaving John to pay the driver. Lestrade looks up and grins, relief washing clearing over his face. “Finally,” he calls, pushing off the car, “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

“As if I’d miss the opportunity to question one of the prime suspects,” Sherlock drawls as he comes to a stop practically toe-to-toe the DI, “John needed to be roused from his beauty sleep, which delayed our arrival somewhat.” John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s little quip as he joins them belatedly.

“Beauty sleep, eh?” Lestrade flicks his eyes over the the doctor consideringly. “No offense mate, but it doesn’t look like it did you any good,” he informs John with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, ta very much,” John laughs and makes a rude gesture in reply.

“Well he hardly needs it anyway,” Sherlock remarks thoughtlessly, and instantly  _feels_ the blood rush to his face. His heart flutters in his chest over the unintended slip, and his eyes shoot sidelong to John, anxiously gauging his reaction. Thankfully, neither John and Lestrade seem to think anything of it, apparently misinterpreting the comment entirely. John casts his gaze skyward, sighing dramatically.

“With friends like these, who needs enemies?” He laments, and Sherlock forces his lips into a plastic grin of amusement.

“True enough,” Lestrade chuckles, “wouldn’t do you any good, now would it?” he informs John good-naturedly as he hands the file to Sherlock. “Isn’t as if you have time for some pretty little thing chasing after you anyhow, what with this nutter forever keeping you occupied.”

 _Good,_ Sherlock thinks with no small amount of satisfaction, his smile softening into something far more genuine. “And what’s this?” He queries aloud, changing the subject smoothly as he takes the folder from Lestrade's hands.

“Screen captures from the Cavendish home’s security footage,” Lestrade explains as Sherlock flips the folder open to find a stack of somewhat grainy photographs, all featuring the distinctive grey cast of a night-vision camera. “No interior cameras, but several exterior ones. That,” Lestrade continues, reaching over the edge of the folder to point at the open second-story window captured in the image, “is Marie Cavendish’s bedroom window. And that _—_ ” he lifts the first photo to reveal the second beneath it, of a man climbing in through the window “ _—_ according to the facial recognition software, is one Mr. Edward Cavendish.”

Sherlock glances at the time-stamp in the bottom right corner of the image. “Half four in the morning is a rather unusual time to be making a visit to one’s sister-in-law, wouldn’t you say?” he asks, looking up from the photograph with a smug grin.

“Visiting sister-in-law’s bedroom window at _any_ time is pretty bloody unusual,” John points out with an amused quirk of his lips. Sherlock inclines his head in consensus, flipping through the remaining stills. Sure enough, the second-to-last capture features a slightly fuzzy view of one of the tall french windows of the lounge area leading to the pool deck. Just visible through behind the gauzy curtains are Eddie and Marie, Philip's limp form slung between themselves. The final image is of Eddie alone; frozen in the act of lowering himself back down from Marie’s window ledge, just before six.

“The Butler claimed he would have been alerted immediately if the security system had been deactivated at any point. _But— ”_ Sherlock flips back to the first image and taps the timestamp reading twenty-three oh five “ _—_ if her window was left open _prior_ to it being armed, it would have served as a perfect bypass to the system. Hence the lack of any alarms,” he concludes, smiling brightly. “Quite clever actually, if it was intentional.”

“Probably never occurred to them to check and wipe the footage, since they assumed that it would be viewed as an accidental drowning. Right as always, you smug bastard,” Lestrade grins in return, accepting the folder back from Sherlock as they make their way to the front step. “Donovan just sent word on the NHS records; Marie’s mystery appointment three weeks ago was at the Hyacinth Lea Omega Clinic on Harley Street. Her doctor confirmed that she’s about eleven weeks along. We have clearance to proceed in performing a paternity test once she’s located, but we’ll need to get a sample from Edward as well.”

“That shouldn't be difficult to justify,” Sherlock contends, “It would be rather remiss of Scotland Yard _not_ to demand a sample from the Alpha captured on film climbing through the expectant Omega’s window.”

“The testing will have to be fairly thorough though,” John adds with a frown. “Since the brothers have both the same carrier and sire, the lab needs to know to check a wider selection of markers than usual, or the test could prove inconclusive.”

“I'll make note of that," Lestrade gives an affirmative nod. "No going off half-cocked on this, Sherlock,” he warns sternly as he presses the bell. “We still need to find her, and we need Eddie’s cooperation for that. Philip was already dead when he climbed through that window, so we know he wasn’t the one who offed the poor sod. I've got two of my boys staying out here,” he directs their attention toward a second panda car with his chin, discreetly parked across the road with two uniformed officers seated inside. “Don't want to spook him, but depending on how things go I'd like backup to be close at hand.”

“Bit odd, meeting us at his dead brother’s house when he has a flat of his own though, isn’t it?” John observes, folding his hands behind his back and casually rocking on his heels as they wait. Lestrade quirks a knowing smile his way just as the door begins to open.

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

* * *

 

The Butler greets them with rigid formality, eyes flickering with surprise when they alight on Sherlock. His face settles into a cool mask of disapproval and he politely informs them that Edward Cavendish is awaiting them in the drawing room, then leads them in it’s direction.

“People still have _drawing rooms_?” John leans close to whisper irreverently in Sherlock’s ear as they follow the man through the front hall. Sherlock snorts quietly, biting his lip to contain his amusement.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” Edward rises smoothly when the Butler shows them inside and announces them, holding out a hand in greeting.

“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice Mr. Cavendish,” Lestrade shakes it politely, then turns to gesture at John and Sherlock in introduction. “These are two of our consultants, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They’ll be joining us for the interview if you have no objections.”

“Of course,” Edward smiles in assent, “though please, call me Eddie. ‘Mr. Cavendish’ makes me feel as if I should be in my dotage.” He steps forward to offer his hand to John first, then turns to Sherlock and freezes, nostrils flaring. “Is this your Omega Dr. Watson? Rather unconventional of you, bringing him along,” he inquires of John, tilting his head with curiosity. He pointedly doesn’t offer his hand, but instead runs his eyes appreciatively up and down Sherlock’s form. In response, Sherlock merely raises his brows in cool condescension, and makes no move to bring his own hands out from where they’re folded genteelly behind his back.

For a brief moment, however, while John blinks rapidly in stupefaction, something warm and pleased blooms in Sherlock’s chest at being referred to as such.

_John’s Omega._

“Um, n-no,” John sputters, flushing scarlet endearingly, “I’m his assistant.”

The pleasure dies away just as suddenly as it arose, and Sherlock frowns. _John needn’t sound quite so_ alarmed _by the insinuation._

“Mr. Holmes is actually our foremost consultant,” Lestrade informs Eddie with a hint of reproach. Sherlock continues to say nothing, inspecting the room indifferently all the while.

“What?” Eddie goggles unattractively. “An _Omega_ consultant _—_ with an _Alpha_ for an _assistant_? Surely this a joke,” he marvels.

“Why would it be a joke?” John questions belligerently, his brows pulled deeply together in a thunderous scowl as he takes a step forward. Lestrade’s brings an arm up immediately to impede any further advance. The scent of incited Alpha grows immediately noticeable on the air, and Sherlock fidgets, his body responding instinctively to it with an unexpected wave of arousal. He shoves his hands into his pockets, discreetly holding the front of his coat away from his body in an effort to conceal his sudden erection.

“Well, it’s hardly his place, is it?” Eddie replies incredulously, an agitated flush beginning to creep up his neck in reaction to the scent of a hostile fellow Alpha within his own territory. “Surely you don’t think that it’s _normal_ for Omega’s to be running about with the _police?!_ Interacting with _criminals?!_ He hasn’t even a mate or Apha Familiae here to supervise!”

John's face goes florid, eyebrows flying further upward as his body strains unconsciously against Lestrade’s restraining hand.

“That’s quite enough,” Lestrade interjects firmly, sweat beading along his hairline as he fights to suppress his own sympathetic, if milder, Beta response to the two Alpha’s. “It really isn’t any business of yours who The Met chooses to engage, Mr. Cavendish. And _both_ of you,” he adds, turning his head to meet John’s eyes, “need to get a hold of yourselves.” Before the situation can descend into some ridiculous pheromone-driven brawl, Sherlock decides to step in.

“If you're quite done making a fuss over the idea of an Omega with a career, perhaps we can return to the subject at hand,” he sniffs loftily as he meets Eddie’s gaze directly. “Which is to say the disappearance of your _darling_ sister-in-law.”

“Yes,” Eddie gives a mild cough of embarrassment, “of course.” He takes a few shambling steps backward, and runs a hand through his hair as he sinks down onto the sofa. “I- I forgot myself. After what happened to Phillip, getting Marie back safely is the utmost concern of my mother and I. Please, have a seat,” he waves distractedly to the second sofa, across the coffee table from himself. “I’ll ring for tea.”

 

* * *

 

For better part of an hour, Lestrade beats about the bush; purposefully lulling Edward into complacency. He and John politely partake of the proffered tea, make sympathetic noises, and unhurriedly reconfirm the facts of Edward’s statement from the morning of Marie’s disappearance. _Very_ unhurriedly. In an effort to keep himself from climbing the walls, Sherlock wanders the edges of the room. He examines the contents of the shelves _(boring),_ the framed photographs _(posed and stiff)_ , the artwork _(pretentious)_ , and the ornaments _(exorbitantly expensive)_ scattered throughout.

“Mr. Holmes has been reviewing the case files for us, and he has some questions to ask you,” Lestrade finally announces, and Sherlock expectantly swivels his head about to make eye contact with Lestrade over Eddie’s head. Lestrade rolls his eyes mildly, but then gives a permissory tilt of his head. _Excellent._ He claps his hands together delightedly and swoops around the sofa to plunk himself down next to John. He takes his yet un-touched tea in hand and belatedly joins the conversation.

“I’ve been studying Marie’s calendar Mr. Cavendish, and I couldn’t help but notice the frequent appearance of your name in it,” he remarks impassively, keeping his face deliberately blank as he eyes Edward’s reaction. “You’re quite close with your sister-in-law, are you not?”

Despite the extreme tediousness of the last three-quarters of an hour, Sherlock has to admit that Lestrade’s ploy seems to have worked. Edward Cavendish is smugly self-satisfied and entirely unaware that he’s mere minutes away from arrest.

“I am,” Eddie confirms with an agreeable smile. “Our families have known one another since we were children. We’re of an age, so we’ve always gotten on exceedingly well.”

“And you would normally live here at the house with her, when your brother went abroad?”

Edward immediately responds with his best imitation of a grief-stricken brother. “Yes. Philip always preferred that I stay at the house, rather than just check in on her from time to time. Our mother remains in the country for most of the year, and it made him feel much more assured of her safety; having me here full-time.”

“That’s very dedicated of you,” Lestrade leans forward to commend Eddie with an affected air of camaraderie. “Must’ve make it hard to find an Omega of your own though _—_ spending as much time with her as you do. Your brother was away pretty often.”

“Well, perhaps,” Eddie smiles tightly, clearly growing a bit disconcerted by the lingering focus on his relationship with his brother’s Omega. “But Marie is family. And family, after all, comes first.”

“A noble sentiment,” Sherlock simpers falsely. “So then Eddie, tell me;” he prompts, casually sipping his tea, “when, exactly, did sleeping with her become a part of your brotherly duties?”

“I beg your pardon?” Eddie blanches, aghast, placing his tea down on the tabletop with a shaking hand. But the look is too practiced and deliberate, a hint of panic underlying its surface. “I can’t believe that you would insinuate something so- so...  _appalling_! Have you no shame?”

“No,” John confirms affably on Sherlock’s behalf, “none whatsoever, actually.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Sherlock rolls his eyes unrepentantly. “No self-respecting Alpha spends that much time with another’s Omega, family or not; unless they’re having an affair. Or if they’re helping provide cover for one.” Eddie’s face freezes in a rictus of shock, a deep red flush making it’s way slowly up his neck and into his cheeks. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, and curls his lip dramatically as he continues, his words taking a deliberate turn for the crude. No better way to goad an Alpha into betraying themselves than by insulting their Omega.

“Given that she’s pregnant and there’s no possible way for it to be her mate’s child; either she was spreading her legs for you, or for someone else. More likely you, considering that the pregnancy has remained viable despite her Alpha’s absence and death. Or...perhaps it was both? After all, what kind of bonded Omega doesn’t remain faithful to her Alpha Maritus? Certainly no paragon of virtue. No; an Omega like that is really no better than a wh _—_ ”

“He didn’t _appreciate_ her!” Eddie explodes suddenly, cutting Sherlock off mid-word. “He had a beautiful, _perfect_ Omega, and what did he do? He _left_ her, for months on end; suffering through her heats alone, never being bred, never being given children to care for!” His pent up fury apparently unleashed, he springs from the couch, and begins pacing agitatedly. “He treated her like a _toy!_ Like he could just take her out to play with when he wanted to, then leave her to collect dust on the shelf the rest of the time. _He never deserved her._ You can't just treat an Omega like that! They need... they need taking  _care_ of!"

“Do we now?” Sherlock questions dryly, the scandalized façade dropping from his face in the blink of an eye, “How good to know. And how did _you_ treat her Eddie? Did you _take care_ of her?” He sneers.

“Better than _he_ did,” Eddie spits, his gaze trailing off toward the far reaches of the room unseeingly, his voice softening as he continues. “It wasn’t… it was never meant to be like this. She was never meant to be Philip’s; she was supposed to be _mine._ ”

“Yes, I thought as much,” Sherlock replies, setting down his tea to lean back against the sofa nonchalantly. “Did you commence your affair before or after they were bonded? You mentioned you’d know each other since childhood _—_ I imagine perhaps you had hopes at some point that your parents would obtain Marie for yourself, rather than your significantly older brother.”

“It was all about the _money,_ ” Edward confirms bitterly. “Philip was engaged to another Omega when we were coming of age- had been for years. A few months before they were to be bonded, Tabitha died in an accident. Marie’s sire had been in talks with my mine, arranging our own bond-match... When Tabitha died, she thought it more advantageous to offer Marie for Philip instead," he scoffs resentfully, "as a  _replacement._ ”

“Once they were bonded, I never meant to _—_ It just… happened. The first time… They’d been bonded for a few years already, and Philip was away _again_. Her heat came on a bit early, and well… Once we started, we couldn’t stop.” Eddie drops back down to the sofa, dropping back onto the sofa once more, bowing his head to cradle it in his hands. “The baby… it was an accident. We always used protection, but she couldn’t go on a proper contraceptive suppressant. Anyone would have been able to smell the difference in her scent, and report back to Philip. Still, somehow we managed to avoid it for years…” He looks up, eyes watery and bleak and huffs an unamused laugh. “I suppose our luck ran out.”

“I suppose it did,” Sherlock agrees solemnly, an unexpected surge of something akin to sympathy taking him by surprise. For a moment, a hushed silence falls over the room.

“We reviewed the security footage from the grounds around the house,” Lestrade clears his throat suddenly, breaking the silence. He turns the folder about on the table and flips it open to reveal the capture of Eddie climbing the trellis. “We know that you returned to the house that night, Mr. Cavendish _—_   _after_ your brother’s death.”

“That… that doesn’t _prove_ anything other than the fact that I was… _visiting_ her, the night that he died!” He insists waspishly, shaking his head. “And I’ve- I’ve already told you about that! It may not be _decent_ , but isn’t illegal anymore- and my brother can’t very well file a suit against me over it.”

“Very right,” Sherlock agrees sharply, coming back to himself; the curious burst of pity dissipating abruptly as it had appeared. “But _this_ , however,” he flips over the printed still of Eddie in the window to reveal the one of he and Marie carrying Philip’s body, “proves rather a lot.”

Eddie pales, one hand coming up to splay over his mouth.

“Now, I’d say at this juncture that it’s quite obvious that Marie was never kidnapped. The two of you arranged for her to disappear in order to throw us off her scent, and give the impression of the involvement of an outside party,” Sherlock announces pointedly. "Pity that it backfired; if you hadn't attracted so much attention to her, we might never have discovered the pregnancy and narrowed in our focus." With that, he pulls his mobile from his pocket and begins tapping away at it, his interest in any further interrogation apparently concluded.

“Where is she Mr. Cavendish?” Lestrade questions, his tone brooking no argument. “It’ll go much better for you if you cooperate.” Eddie collapses a little in on himself, slumping against the back of the couch.

“She’s… she’s staying at my flat,” he admits, eyes trained dully on the rug. "In The Landmark."

“How fortuitous,” Sherlock remarks abruptly, looking up from his phone and turning it about to face John and Lestrade, “considering that the warrant to search it just came through.”

 _“_ Hold on a tick _—_ _”_ Lestrade squints at the screen, his brows knitting together in vexation as he recognizes the contents, _“—is that my email?”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the briefest of delays this time! And the case that grew a mind of it's own finally comes to a close!

A quick phone call to Donovan has a team moving ahead to secure Edward’s flat and Marie along with it. Lestrade hands Edward off to be taken into custody by the two uniformed officers waiting outside, with instructions for the collection of a DNA sample upon his arrival at New Scotland Yard. The Alpha goes without a struggle, subdued and defeated-looking as he’s handcuffed and ushered from the house.

“You’ve really got to stop hacking into my email,” Lestrade informs Sherlock as they stand on the pavement outside the Cavendish house, watching as one of the officers steers Edward into the back of the waiting panda with a guiding hand on his head. “I’d rather not be made to look like an idiot in front of a suspect.”

“Yes, of course. How remiss of me,” Sherlock agrees with a roll of his eyes, “I’m certain that Edward’s foremost thought as he was being arrested was _‘My God, that Gavin Lestrade really ought to select a more secure password for himself’_. He’d never have even known it _was_ your email if you hadn’t said so. So really, _you’re_ the one who made yourself look like an idiot.”

“For the millionth bloody time,” Lestrade throws his hands in the air, letting out a squawk not unlike that of an indignant pidgeon, _“it’s Greg!”_ With an aggravated shake of his head he stomps off in the direction of his own car, gesturing for John and Sherlock to follow him. “Just get in the car and lets go.”

Sherlock dithers for a moment, stepping from one foot to the other as he grimaces at the police car. John brings a hand of to the small of his back, and Sherlock forces himself to resist the urge to lean into the warm, reassuring pressure. “I’ll ride in the back,” John volunteers nonchalantly, and when Sherlock angles a tiny appreciative smile downward at him, John graciously pretends not to notice.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the location of Edward’s flat, there’s a young officer in uniform waiting outside the building entrance to direct them to the correct floor. The flat itself is photoshoot-ready; outfitted entirely in sleek, minimalist chrome and white, everything within giving the distinct impression of being eye-wateringly expensive. In the midst of it all, flanked by Sally Donovan and another officer, a beautiful blonde Omega perches at the end of one of the long leather sofas, looking just as elegant and flawless as her surroundings.

When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are _you_ doing here? Still running around making sure to rub your unnatural life style in the rest of our faces?”

He winces mildly at the jab, and ignores the startled look that John levels at him out of the corner of his eye. He supposes it _was_ a bit over-optimistic of him to hope that she might not remember him.

“Marie,” he acknowledges tersely. “I’d ask after your health and family, but I think given the circumstances that’s rather moot.”

“Wait _—_ you two… you know each other?!” Lestrade’s brows shoot up as he freezes in place and gestures incredulously between the two Omegas. “You might have said, y’know,” he advises Sherlock peevishly, “that you’re on a first name basis with one of the suspects and all. Bit of a conflict of interest there.”

“Yes, well. We attended secondary school together,” Sherlock offers waspishly. “It’s hardly as though we meet for tea twice a month.” He unwinds his scarf and stuffs it in his pocket, then seats himself primly on the low ottoman in front of her.

“I’d sooner gnaw my own hand off,” Marie sneers in turn.

“Yeah,” Sally snorts at that, “she definitely knows him alright.”

“I should have bloody known,” Lestrade mutters, half to himself, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, I suppose you lot all get sent to the same poncy public schools for Omegas don't you?“

“Yup,” Sherlock confirms with a pop of his lips.

“Ah well, there you have it! Guess you’d best be off _Freak_ ,” Sally bares her teeth in a surly approximation of a smile.

“No, absolutely not,” Lestrade interrupts, clapping one hand down on Sherlock’s shoulder when he goes to rise. “ _You_ stay put. He’s not going anywhere Sally.”

“But  _Sir!_ ” Sally sputters in protest. “He can’t- we can’t just let him stay on and interrogate the suspect when he _knows_ her!”

“Bugger it. It hardly matters now,” the DI grumbles in reply, and Sally gives an incredulous huff. “It isn’t as if he hasn’t known her the _entire_ time anyways. The damage is already done _—_ and we wouldn’t have gotten anywhere on this without him, so we might as well get as much out of it as we can.”

“Mrs. Cavendish, I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Lestrade turns to introduce himself to Marie, flashing his badge briefly. “In light of our recent discoveries regarding your Alpha’s death, we've taken your brother-in-law into custody on suspicion of homicide. Before we did so, he disclosed to us the, uh, full nature of your relationship.” He sits down next to Sherlock and pulls his phone and notepad from his pocket. He waves his phone about to display it clearly as he sets it to record and then places it and the side table to the right of Marie. “Mr. Holmes here is one of Scotland Yard’s consultants. Due to his input, we’re well aware of your... um,  _condition_ and we’ve confirmed it with your physician. That being said, I’d like to remind you that the more cooperative you are, the better we’ll be able to accommodate your needs.”

“Best be out with it Marie,” Sherlock informs her boredly, crossing his legs and examining his nails, “between the footage from the security cameras, and everything else that your idiotic lover informed us of, it’s well and truly over for you in any case.”

“Is this your Alpha?” She disregards his advice, tilting her head curiously at John to consider him instead, her eyes flicking appraisingly over his form. “Interesting match. _Not_ what I would have expected Mycroft to drum up for you.”

“ _No_ , actually. I’m his _assistant,_ ” John bites out. Sherlock ignores the painful clench in his chest at the irritation in John’s voice. It’s a struggle to keep his face perfectly expressionless, but he manages.

“ _Assistant._ Is that a euphemism?” Marie arches a delicate brow at Sherlock in amusement. “It wouldn’t be out of character for you to have some kind of unorthodox arrangement. You never _did_ conform to any of the rules or expectations that the rest of us had to abide by, did you Sherlock?” She focuses in on him scornfully, entirely ignoring everyone else. The room grows quiet, as the majority of the surrounding Yarders less than covertly attempt to listen in on the exchange as they go about their work. “ _You_ got to go to university and actually study what you _wanted_ , you live independently, you have a _career_ with an _assistant_ apparently _._  I heard you even dabbled in a touch of drug addiction.” She pauses, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she considers Sherlock. “Come to think of it, maybe _that’s_ why you don’t have an Alpha. Nobody cares for damaged goods after all. Overall, it’s really quite shocking what kind of behaviour The Metropolitan Police evidently encourages in Omegas.”

“As lovely as it is catching up,” Sherlock drawls sarcastically, “we’re _really_ not here to talk about me or what _I_ get up to.”

“Oh, but I think we _should_ ,” Marie contends with a catty little moue. “Because here you are, ready judge me _—_ to dissect _my_ life _—_ when you have _no idea_ what it's like. What _any_ of it is like. How it feels, wanting something, or someone you can't have. Being offered up to the highest bidder, and marrying whoever your family decides. _You’ve_ never had to lie back and let someone have you, even when you'd rather die.”

“No,” Sherlock assents with a tilt of his head. “But I _do_ know that your Alpha was already dead when his brother arrived at the house. Curious that. I also know he had abnormally high levels of zopiclone in his system, petechial hemorrhaging consistent with smothering and postmortem lividity along his back. Given the location of his body’s discovery, I’m sure that wasn’t the intended outcome. So what was it? Did Eddie slip Philip the pills while they were out, or was that you? I imagine the plan was for his death to look like an unfortunate accident. Rather inconvenient all this.”

“Philip never could do anything right,” she sneers spitefully. “He made me put up with his rutting, but never gave me any children, he didn’t stay and mind his household the way a _real_ Alpha should; he couldn’t even _die_ right!” She crosses her arms. “Eddie hid the pills in Philip's drinks when they were out for dinner. Once he got home, he was supposed to go for a swim like he always did before bed. But what did he do? He came up to my room, randy and demanding, pawing at me like some disgusting _animal_. But he was weak and sloppy from the pills and the drink, and it was so easy to just climb on top of him and press the pillow to his face, until he stopped struggling.”

“And then you called Eddie to let him know that things had gone awry,” Sherlock deduces. “Obviously you couldn’t just leave the body where it was, but you couldn't very well move it on your own. Interesting how he didn’t arrive immediately though. He needed to put on a bit of a show carousing, to make sure that he still had an appropriate alibi, didn’t he.” He leans forward, and resting an elbow on his knee. “And the kidnapping was your idea too wasn't it? You knew the fact he was asphyxiated rather than drowned would garner further scrutiny. But! If something were to suddenly happen to _you_ , the police would likely assume that you'd been targeted by an outside party, possibly for revenge of some kind."

“It was a good idea,” she shrugs impassively. “Philip made plenty of enemies over the years through his work; money is incredibly divisive.”

“It was,” Sherlock acknowledges with a small twitch of his lips. “Scotland Yard would have almost certainly fallen for it. Pity for you that they called me in on it. To be entirely honest, I might not have quite put it together myself if it weren’t for the baby.”

Her eyes well with sudden tears at that, and one of her hands come up to rest protectively over her abdomen. “I don’t regret it,” she insists with a shaky voice, “Philip was a _terrible_ Alpha, and I’m glad to be free of him. No matter what.”

“Yes, but now you've forgone your chance to raise your child yourself _—_ they’ll of course allow you and Edward visiting privileges to ensure the safe delivery of the child. But, after that, you’ll remain separated for so long as you remain guests of her Majesty. Your child will be assigned to an Alpha Publicae, and in all likelihood be given over to be raised by your mother-in-law; only ever seeing it’s parents on prison visitation days, if then. Given how Philip and Edward turned out, that doesn’t seem as especially enviable fate.” Sherlock levels his gaze at her coldly. “ _All_ of which could have easily been avoided had Edward shown some mettle, and risked disinheritance in order to file a preemptive _Alpha vicarius_  parental claim. It would have stayed Philip's hand until the birth at the very least, and ultimately granted him custody of the child if successful. I suppose in the end greed was the downfall of both of you. I can’t say that I’m terribly surprised. You always _did_ show a preference for a pretty things, and a handsome face over intelligence or character.”

“What do _you_ know?” Marie hisses back at him, her eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t know what it's like to be in _love!_ You don’t know _anything—_ not about about mates, or bonding or Alphas! You’re just a _freak_ , and pathetic excuse for an Omega. If you ask me; that brother of yours is to blame,” she accuses. “Your _father_ knew how to properly bring up an Omega. But once he died and Mycroft became your Alpha Familiae, he spoiled you _appallingly.”_

“Well, _I_ certainly wouldn’t feel the need to murder anyone in cold blood, especially not at the risk of being separated from my unborn child. So perhaps you’re right. But then I hardly think that _you’re_ in a position to dictate the proper conduct for Omegas, considering that the only reason that I’m here at all is due to you having killed your mate, _while_ carrying the offspring of another Alpha,” Sherlock narrows his eyes and curls his lip at her in return. “If we were in competition to see which of us is more of a disgrace as an Omega, I do believe I’d have to concede the victory to you.”

With an unearthly shriek of rage, Marie springs from the couch and flies at Sherlock, taking everyone by surprise. The force of the impact sends the two of them toppling from the ottoman, and they hit the floor in a flurry of arms and legs, and Sherlock immediately rolls onto his belly beneath Marie, in an effort to either scramble out from beneath her, or to shelter his face from her clawing hands. Undeterred, she straddles his back and rains blows down upon it. Distantly, over the sound Marie’s screaming epithets in his ear, he hears John curse vehemently.

All the activity in the room screeches to a halt as every officer turns to gape at the two Omegas grappling on the sitting room rug. In an unanticipated show of strength, Marie viciously twists one hand in Sherlock’s curls, and yanks upward before shoving back down again, slamming his face against the floor.

He sees stars, pain exploding across his face upon impact. He bucks backward violently, attempting to throw her from his back, and a spurt of bright red blood splatters across the shaggy white rug beneath him.

When she clings determinedly, he flips back over to face her again, trying desperately to grab hold of her wrists. They roll about briefly, each vying to get the upper hand, and the blood from his still-gushing nose smears over both their hands and fronts. John and Lestrade flutter awkwardly around them, attempting to separate the two without having their legs knocked out from under them.

“Well, don’t just bloody _stand_ there!” Lestrade bellows at his gawping team as he tries to haul a thrashing Marie off of Sherlock. “You’re _police officers,_  for God's sake;not fourth formers watching a schoolyard brawl!” His words snap the spectating officers into action, and there’s a clamour as everyone rushes forward to help all at once. They hoist her up and off, while John and Sally step in to help Sherlock to his feet.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sally goggles in astonishment, “I can’t believe she just…I’m mean, she’s an _Omega_. They don’t- they just don’t do that _._ ”

 _“Really?”_ Sherlock marvels nasally from behind his hands as he attempts to stem the gush of blood from his nostrils. John hovers at his side, reaching up to press his own hands over Sherlock’s in assistance. “You lot work with _me_ **,** and yet you’re _still_ surprised by an Omega showing a backbone? Good Lord. I’ve lost all hope for Scotland Yard.”

“I am arresting you on suspicion of murder in the first degree,” Lestrade informs Marie in a low, cross tone as he carefully snaps his cuffs around her wrists. “You do not have to say anything; but it may harm your defence if…”

As Sherlock allows John to lead him out of the room, Lestrade’s voice gradually grows too faint to follow. The last thing he sees, when he casts a final glance over his shoulder as they turn the corner, is two gobsmacked Beta officers holding her struggling form in place between them.

 

* * *

 

Guiding the detective into the kitchen with a hand on his elbow, John perches Sherlock on a stool at the island to tend to his nose, commandeering a clean dishcloth from the nearby cupboard to staunch the bleeding.

“Well, shockingly, it isn’t broken,” he declares, lifting the cloth to gently prod Sherlock’s throbbing nose with exploratory fingers. “Hold that in place while I run down the hall and get something to clean you up with,” he commands, tilting Sherlock’s head farther backward. In lieu of nodding, Sherlock grunts his acquiescence, lifting a hand and pressing it against the cloth in John’s stead. He fidgets as he waits, staring awkwardly up at the ceiling over the folded edge of the flannel and listening to the buzz of officers milling about the flat as they process the scene.

“I'm just saying, mate _—_ two Omegas grappling about, pulling each other's hair and the like? Like something out of a porno that was! Don’t tell me it didn’t make things a bit tight in your trousers.” Sherlock hears the Alpha PC guarding the front door of the flat comment lewdly to his Beta partner with a chuckle. He blanches, pressing the cloth tighter against his nose as if to hide behind it, and curls his shoulders forward defensively. Thanks to the angle of his head, he isn’t entirely sure if they’re just oblivious to the fact that he’s well within earshot, or if they just don’t give a damn.

Quite likely the latter.

The PC’s companion responds with a boorish laugh of agreement. “A bit like one of those real dirty ones, innit? Where the two Omegas fuck, until an Alpha comes along and shows ‘em what they’re missing. Can't say I wouldn't enjoy watching that…” The Beta replies at volume better suited to a pub than a crime scene. “Even if one of them _was_ the freak.”

“Mm,” the Alpha hums in agreement, “wouldn’t be much of a chore bending him over and showing him his place. He isn't hard on the eyes _—_ so long as his mouth is otherwise occupied.”

“Oi!” John snarls, his face a mask of venomous rage, as he steps back into the kitchen from the hall. His fingers clench down on the damp flannel in his hand so tightly that the water wells up from between his fingers and drips to the floor. “You watch your mouths," he threatens, "or I'll bloody well make sure that _they’re_ the ones that are plenty occupied... with sucking sustenance through a straw for the next six weeks.”

“Oh yeah, mate?” The Alpha steps forward antagonistically, puffing his chest out. “I'm not afraid of you. Aren't even a proper Alpha, are you? Running around after an Omega like that- like a little lap dog.”

Head tilt forgotten entirely, Sherlock watches the exchange from behind his dishcloth, utterly agape and helplessly transfixed by the sight of John lathered into a fury in his defense; his traitorous inner Omega practically _vibrating_ with desire. Good _lord._  It _must_ be the hormones. Never in his life has he actually been  _aroused_ by what esentially amounts to a tedious display of Alpha chest-thumping. He gives his head a firm shake in an effort to collect himself. _Do try to contain yourself_ , he sniffs imperiously at his Omega, _we hardly need to add fuel to the bigots’ bonfire of stereotypes._

“What's going on out here?” Lestrade cuts in suddenly as he appears in the archway that leads out to the sitting room. He looks between John and the two PCs, raising his eyebrows pointedly at his men. The Beta, at least, has the grace to look abashed, casting his eyes downward and shuffling his feet.

“Did you hear what they were saying,” John demands thunderously, stabbing an accusing finger in the men’s direction, “about Sherlock? It was disgusting.”

“I did,” Lestrade acknowledges flatly, leveling a dark look the two constables way. “And rest assured; I _will_ be dealing with them. But the last thing I need is another brawl on my watch. You take Sherlock home and get him all sorted out. I can get your statements from you tomorrow.”

John nods tightly, then takes a few steps to stand before Sherlock, lifting the wrung-out flannel up toward Sherlock’s front. “Just need to _—_ I’ll just clean him up a touch first.”

“Right,” Lestrade allows, looking to Sherlock’s blood-stained front with a start, as if having forgotten the state of it. "Taylor, Jenkins _—"_ he barks at the two PCs, “outside. _Now._ ”

The three men march out the flat and out of sight, and Sherlock lowers the now blood-soaked cloth from it’s place over his nose to allow John to begin carefully swiping at the half-dried trails of blood covering the lower half of his face.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sherlock offers quietly while submitting himself to John’s ministrations. “It wasn’t anything I haven’t heard before.”

“Yes, I did,” John replies firmly. “I don’t care if you’ve heard it before or not. You shouldn’t have to hear it at _all—_ and I’m certainly not about to let those bastards get away with it.”

“What that Alpha said, about you running after me _—_ ”

“I don’t care,” John interrupts him decisively. “It doesn’t matter to me that you're an Omega. I’ll run after you if I damned well please, and anyone who thinks I should do otherwise can go hang.” As he dabs at particularly stubborn smear of blood on Sherlock’s chin, John’s fingers brush against the swell of his bottom lip. Sherlock struggles to suppress a shiver at the touch, squirming slightly in his seat. “My being an Alpha has nothing to do with our relationship. I don’t need my choices _or_ my gender to be validated by some- some- _knothead_ with more cock than brains.”

Sherlock smiles up at John tremulously in response, even while, inside of him, his Omega deflates pitifully at John’s words.

_It doesn’t matter to me that you’re an Omega._

_It doesn’t matter._

_It doesn’t matter._

He should be pleased to hear it; exuberant, really. It’s exactly what he’s been waiting his whole life to hear; clear, concise, and completely uncomplicated.

And _yet._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Mummy and Daddy Holmes, (Daddy in particular) who seem perfectly lovely in canon.

Once John’s managed to clean Sherlock up as best as possible  _—_ his shirt, unfortunately, is a complete loss _—_ they depart. He has to button his coat up over the bloody mess of his shirt-front, but once it’s done, he has no trouble at all flagging down a cab.

An undeniable tension lingers between them for the first half of the ride; Sherlock’s mind remaining stubbornly fixated on John’s words in the flat. His Omega careens wildly between thrilled lust brought on by the display of protectiveness and care from _their_ Alpha, and confused melancholy over John’s dismissal of any bond between them.

“Why didn’t you say,” John quizzes him suddenly, at just about the halfway point to Baker Street, “that you and Marie Cavendish knew each other? You must have recognized her the moment you saw name and her photograph in the case file.”

“It didn’t seem especially relevant,” Sherlock answers with a perfunctory shrug. “Most Omegas of an age know one another in our social strata. In passing, at the very least. We generally aren’t permitted to move about in a wide variety of social circles.”

“Oh,” John frowns, hesitating slightly before he haltingly continues. “You’ve not talked much _—_ about growing up, I mean. Though it’s, well, it wasn’t hard to deduce that you and Mycroft come from a certain… set.”

“Mm, yes.” Sherlock hums noncommittally and busies himself brushing some imaginary lint off the sleeve of his coat. It’s painfully evident that John’s incredibly curious about Sherlock’s background, and always has been. He has the advantage here over John, as in most things, having long deduced the general gist of his blogger's childhood.

John remains quiet for a moment, clearly weighing the risk versus reward of probing further, now that the perfect opportunity has presented itself. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock watches as John bites his lip, then hazards the leap.

“And what she said, about Mycroft spoiling you...” John begins and Sherlock huffs impatiently and cuts him off.

“ _Please_ John, _surely_ you’ve noticed that my living situation and lifestyle is remarkably unusual as compared to most Omegas“

“Yeah, okay,” John inclines his head in sheepish acknowledgement before he continues, “so I take it then, that your father was… more, um, traditional than Mycroft?”

Despite having expected it, Sherlock squirms a bit in his seat with apprehension. He isn’t sure whether or not he actually wants to discuss this. One one hand, he _wants_ to tell John; to share with him anything and everything he desires to know. To bask in the focus of John’s attention.

On the other hand, he doesn’t particularly relish discussing the most difficult period of his life. Especially not in the backseat of a cab.

“Yes, ” Sherlock takes a leap of his own and replies after a few moments of silence. “He…Father was a good Alpha, and an affable man; very loving in his own way. But he was still of a very... traditionalist mindset,” Sherlock casts his gaze out the window, “in regard to the station of Omega’s in the world.”

He’s saved from having to elaborate any further in their current, awkwardly semi-public setting when the cab comes to a sudden halt, pulling up to the kerb. Taking a closer look at their surroundings, Sherlock’s startled to find that they’ve arrived back on Baker Street without his notice.

“Here we are boys,” the cabbie informs them cheerfully of the obvious.

John pays the man, and they make their way up into the flat in subdued silence. When they get in, John immediately sets to washing up two mugs and putting the kettle on, bumbling about the kitchen domestically while Sherlock retreats to his bedroom to change out of his ruined shirt.

“Everyone assumes otherwise, but I _was_ raised in a manner entirely typical of any Omega,” Sherlock announces abruptly when he re-enters the kitchen clad in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown. “As I indicated in the taxi, Father firmly believed that an Omega’s place was in the home, and under the careful supervision of an Alpha Familiae or Maritus”

“Christ,” John turns to him with a start, clutching a bag of frozen peas to his chest, “warn a bloke, would you?”

“It’s hardly as if I popped out of the ether,” Sherlock frowns, glancing behind himself as if to confirm. “I went to my room, spent several minutes there, and then summarily returned through the very doorway that I left through.” John levels him with an unimpressed stare, then takes his hand and unceremoniously drops the frosty bag of produce into it.

“You know exactly what I mean,” John contends. “Go sit and hold this to your nose. I’ll bring you your tea in a bit.”

As promised, John joins him an uncomfortably cold quarter hour later and exchanges the peas for a steaming mug of tea. Sherlock sips delicately as John returns the peas to the icebox, savouring the delicious warmth after the chill of the makeshift icepack. Before John seats himself to enjoy his own tea, he carefully checks Sherlock’s face over one more time, cradling his jaw in his fingers to tilt it this way and that. Sherlock lets his eyes drift shut for a moment, savouring the soothing sensation of John’s touch, just as much as he had the hot tea.

“You’ll have a matching set of black eyes for a day or two,” John observes as he releases Sherlock’s chin, then settles back into his own chair, “but it should heal up just fine.” He blows at his tea before sipping from it, keeping his eyes trained on a unremarkable spot on the rug somewhere by Sherlock’s feet. “So then… your upbringing, it was, uh… unpleasant?”

Sherlock sighs and takes a long, deep swallow of his tea before cocking his head in a pensive manner. “It wasn’t entirely _unpleasant_ , specifically, but… difficult, yes. Not always, of course. Father did dote on Mummy and I, allowing us both to partake in some unusual hobbies for our gender. Mummy enjoyed dabbling in theoretical mathematics, and I was allowed the same with my chemistry equipment and various experiments. That was… good. To be entirely honest, I never even understood there was anything different about my life until I was six. In a fit of pique over being denied an extension of my bedtime, I mistakenly divulged the deduction I’d made regarding the intimate nature of Father’s relationship with my Beta au pair over dinner.”

“ _Six?”_ John sputters, choking slightly on his tea, his eyes going wide with surprise. “Jesus Sherlock,” he coughs in a wheezing attempt to clear his airway, “how on _earth_ -”

“Simple, really,” Sherlock brushes away the question with the hand not currently occupied with his tea mug. “The angle of the car seats and a lipstick smear in the back of the Father’s Audi. In any case, once the crying and carrying on had subsided, and the au pair had been dismissed, Father sat me down. He explained to me in no uncertain terms that those small allowances I had assumed to be ordinary were actually a significant indulgence. Even more so than other children, Omegas are meant to be seen and not heard; and if could I not abide by my proper place, I should not expect to have such privileges extended to me.”

“But you were _six,_ ” John argues with slack-jawed incredulity. “You were just a _child!_ ” Sherlock cocks a brow in cool amusement.

“Well, that hardly matters for an Omega,” Sherlock snaps back with no small amount of bitterness, and John has no good argument to present in reply to that.

“You don’t need to, you know,” John informs Sherlock, quiet and subdued, “tell me all of this, I mean. You’re allowed to have your secrets.” His eyes look darker in the anaemic winter sunlight trickling in through the drapes, like the fathomless depths of the open ocean.

“No, but you’re curious, and I… I want to,” Sherlock allows, haltingly. “Tell you, that is. I’d much rather tell you the truth of it all myself anyways. Not have you cobbling something together from scraps delivered by people like Marie Cavendish. _Guessing,_ ” he curls his lip around the word disdainfully, cutting his gaze away toward the kitchen to avoid John’s own before he continues.

“After that, I was careful to heed the unspoken bounds of my station, and Father returned to his usual affable, indulgent self. Once I was old enough, I was sent away to school at Wycombe Abbey, with all the other daughters and Omega children of our circle, to rub elbows with the right sorts and be instructed on all the usual twaddle. You can imagine how well _that_ went; I wasn’t exactly popular with the other children.”

John huffs a small laugh. “So nothing much has changed then,” he teases.

“No,” Sherlock offers a tiny chuckle of his own. “But, despite my social failures, it was fully expected that once I presented, a suitable match would be arranged for me, with an Alpha or Beta from an appropriate family. At every opportunity, my parents trotted me out at dinners and parties, parading me about to be appraised by prospective suitors. Father made it clear that I would, of course, be allowed to attend university _—_ all Omegas who come from money do these days _—_ but only to study something appropriately genteel; Art History, or Music, or the like,” he waggles his fingers vaguely and turns his eyes back to John’s pointedly. “Something to ensure I was cultured and polished; a better ‘prize’ for my future bondmate. ”

“Well, that's completely rubbish,” John shakes his head and looks down at his lap and running a hand through his hair. Sherlock hums in agreement and John turns his gaze upward to meet Sherlock's again, his eyes soft and questioning. “And that’s… obviously _not_ how things turned out for you, is it?”

“No,” Sherlock grants with a sad smile. “Father died quite suddenly in a traffic accident when I was sixteen, about a year after I first presented,” he reveals, the words still triggering an ache of sorrow in his chest, even all these years later. “Mycroft became the Holmes Alpha Familiae and, to everyone’s complete surprise, he immediately arranged for me to begin taking suppressants. It had been expected that he’d simply carry on in Father’s footsteps _—_ even _I_ had thought as much, in all honesty.”

He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair as he thinks back to that time of momentous upheaval; to that sudden, overwhelming sense of freedom he’d experienced. The worst of it had been the confusion of grief warring against relief; the painful, undeniable truth that Father’s death had served to unshackle him from a miserable, subservient existence.

“Father had been firmly against suppressants  _—_ said they were unnatural, and gave Omegas ideas above their station _—_ but Mycroft subscribes a more modern standpoint of utilizing them as a precautionary measure.”

“A precautionary measure?” John’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“A suppressed Omega doesn’t attract the same attention, nor do they have much drive of their own to engage in any sort of... _illicit_ activity,” Sherlock explains and a wave of understanding, followed closely by amusement ripples across John’s expression. He raises his eyebrows pointedly at Sherlock; the gesture clearly meant to reference the _experimentation_ that Sherlock had confessed to engaging in with Victor at University.

“In _theory_ at least,” Sherlock concedes with a mild grimace, determinedly ignoring the embarrassed flush he feels creeping up his cheeks. “I _did_ say that my...  _interest_  in those activities had been subdued at best."

"Much less to worry about on an Alpha Familae’s part, in any case," he shrugs and redirects the topic away from his own misbehaviour, "and we both know how lazy Mycroft is,” he adds with a smirk, and John shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Of course, while the suppressants certainly raised a few eyebrows, the _real_ scandal was when he suspended the search for a match for me. If they hadn’t already thought me strange, at that point my Omega classmates quickly came to resent me; as you saw with Marie. Most already had bond-matches arranged for them by then, and were consigned to rules as bountiful and unyielding as my father’s, if not worse.”

“So they hated you.”

“Mm, really quite thoroughly,” Sherlock rolls his head and shrugs agreeably. “Of course, that isn’t to say that Mycroft isn’t still traditional, in his own way. There _are_ certain things he positively will not abide by, like what I told you about my days at University. But, on other points _—_ other far more _salient_ points _—_ he’s quite… _flexible_. Case in point: my consulting and our living situation.”

“I’ll say,” John concurs, then finishes off the last of his cuppa. “And that was... that? I mean, Mycroft’s the most interfering human being I’ve ever met…left it at that? He never brought it up finding you a mate again? Ever?”

Sherlock hums a confirmation. “He did ask me once, quite awkwardly, when I finished at Wycombe, if I should _like_ for him to arrange a match for me. When I told him I had no interest whatsoever, we never discussed it again.”

John blinks at him, then purses his lips and curtly bobs his head once in acceptance. “Well, alright then.” He stands and brushes his hands together as if washing them of the subject entirely. It's a gesture that Sherlock finds oddly… lightening. As if John has relieved him of the burdens of his past, and absolved them both of it entirely.

It's a good feeling.

“Dinner?” John asks over his shoulder, as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“Starving,” Sherlock grins.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, he and John host Christmas Eve at the flat. With the fuss of the Cavendish case, and everything _else_ it had brought to light, Sherlock had quite forgotten about the holiday entirely, until Mrs. Hudson had brought them several packages of fairy lights and some garland the night before, insisting that the flat was in dire need of some festivity. While John had put on a show of resisting, he’d been all too quick to hang them throughout the sitting room.

John could deny it all he liked, but between the fairy lights and strung up cards festooning the sitting room, the multitude of yuletide sweets that had mysteriously taken up residence in the kitchen cupboards, and the absolutely _hideous_ Christmas jumper he’d donned this morning, his secret love of the holiday was rather obvious. It was terribly endearing actually— though Sherlock _had_ drawn the line at any sort of tree.

There are limits after all.

Sherlock sprawls across his bed, listening to John bustle about the kitchen, brewing mulled wine and preparing a veritable horde of hor d'oeuvres. The sound of John softly humming a carol, and the warm, spicy scent of cloves and anise drift down the hall and in through his open bedroom door.

It's oddly… _peaceful._

Tomorrow John will be gone _—_ off to celebrate at his sister’s, leaving Sherlock behind on his own. Well, not entirely alone. Sherlock spreads his fingers out beneath his navel and ruminates on the suddenly inescapable thought that, next Christmas, it will no longer be just the two of them here at 211B.

Or so he hopes.

He imagines it for a moment: all the same scents and sounds, but with addition of a small infant's delighted burble. It's surprisingly easy. He doesn’t know why, but he imagines that John will talk to their child, long before they can truly comprehend. Replying to their burbles as if carrying on a very important conversation and, in all likelihood, good-naturedly complaining about some misbehavior or experiment of Sherlock’s. The thought brings a smile to his face.

Next to him on the bed, his mobile sighs orgasmically and he picks it up to read the message. 

> _Merry Christmas Mr. Holmes_

He sighs and turns the screen back off without replying, dropping it back onto the coverlet before he foists himself up off of the bed.

Wrong Alpha.

 

* * *

 

The party goes about as well as can be expected; he manages to reign himself in and only snub John’s girlfriend _slightly_. He’s really quite proud of himself for his restraint, in fact, seeing as the urge to bare his teeth at her is overwhelming. Given the circumstances, he can hardly flee the flat to avoid her like last time.

He’s less proud of himself for embarrassing Molly, however. For allowing his peevishness over Jeanette to get the better of him; his tongue turning sharp and cruel. Thankfully she seems accepting of his heartfelt apology. Then, of course, Irene’s text alert goes off and everyone makes a fuss.

John especially.

“Fifty-seven,” he comments tightly; the very picture of prickly Alpha disapproval. For a moment Sherlock’s Omega frets anxiously over having displeased his Alpha, and then Sherlock harshly reminds it that _he’s_ not the one parading some boring Beta woman about their flat.

 _He_ has nothing to feel ashamed of.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asks primly as he thumbs the message open in deliberate provocation, well aware of precisely what John’s referring to.

“Fifty-seven of those texts,” John bites back at him, “the ones I’ve heard.”

> _Mantelpiece._

“ _Thrilling_ that you’ve been counting,” he remarks offhandedly, belying the bitterness that seethes through him at the disapproval.

 _I_ _f John doesn’t want him, what right does he have to grumble over someone_ else’s _interest?_

On the mantel he finds a small box; tied with thin black rope and wrapped in lurid red paper the very same shade as Irene Adler’s lipstick. It hadn’t been there this morning, before he and John had popped out to Tesco's for a few last minute supplies.

He excuses himself abruptly, turning to make his way to his bedroom with it.

“What _—_ what’s up, Sherlock?” John questions as he walks by.

“I said, excuse me,” he replies curtly, without so much as slowing his stride.

Their guests have all fallen silent, clutching their glasses and awkwardly averting their eyes from the domestic tension.

“D’you ever reply?” John’s calls after him, his tone acidic and harsh.

Sherlock ignores him entirely, retreating to his bedroom to perch on his bed. Inside the box lies Irene’s camera phone, distinct and unmistakable. He feels a leaden weight settle into his stomach.

_Ah._

Another reminder of what happens to those who don’t follow the rules and abide by their proper place in the world. He fishes his own mobile from his pocket and dials Mycroft immediately.

“Oh dear Lord,” Mycroft drawls dramatically upon connection. “We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight,” Sherlock announces, without acknowledging Mycroft’s petty wisecrack whatsoever.

“We already know where she is,” Mycroft replies with a disinterested sniff. “As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.”

“No, I mean you're going to find her _dead_.”

 

* * *

 

The morgue is even quieter than usual; an odd feeling of desertion upon the air. He stands beside Mycroft and stares down at the cloth draped body on the slab.

“The face is a bit, sort of… bashed up. So it might be a bit difficult, “ Molly, her cheerful Christmas jumper peeking out beneath her lab coat, warns apologetically before she sombrely pulls back the sheet. When she does, he flicks his eyes over the badly damaged face.

"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft questions.

“Show me the rest of her,” Sherlock demands, impatiently gesturing for Molly to pull back the rest of the cloth. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she does as requested, blushing bright scarlet as she walks along the side of the table.

“That’s her,” he nods briskly in confirmation, and is surprised to find the weight in his gut grow heavier. Without further comment, he brusquely turns away.

“Thank you Miss Hooper,” Mycroft offers politely as Sherlock gives the door a shove.

“She was an _Alpha_ ,” he hears Molly venture hesitantly behind him just before the door swings shut. “How did Sherlock recognize her from… not her face?”

 

* * *

 

When he arrives back at the flat, John is waiting for him anxiously; pretending to read in the glow of the fairy lights, a mere hair's breadth away from wringing his hands. Thankfully, there’s no sign of Jeanette anywhere, and the rest of their guests have clearly long departed as well.

“Oh, hi,” John turns to him, feigning surprise.

Sherlock remains silent, his eyes catching on the inconspicuously disturbed skull on the mantlepiece. He scans the room, observing the various minute signs of disarray. Searched then. He spares a brief moment of panic for the pregnancy tests he’d hidden away in his sock drawer, before recalling that he disposed of them in a nearby skip just a day ago.

Hardly the way he'd like to impart the news to John.

A surge of anger bubbles up inside him as he continues his inspection.

_Does John think Sherlock so fragile that he’ll go to pieces over this? Just a poor, delicate Omega, unable to withstand the shock without falling back into old habits?_

_Is that what they_ all _think?_

The anger dissipates almost instantly; replaced instead by exhaustion.

“Hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time,” he announces dully before heading through the kitchen toward his bedroom.

It feels oddly satisfactory to slam the bedroom door shut behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liiiiive! My sincerest apologies to for the extremely late update! I'd expected I was going to be a day or two behind thanks to Canada Day, and the craziness of my new position at work, but then my Mum landed herself in the hospital on top of it all. Needless to say, writing has been the least of my worries lately! I've been plugging away whenever I've had the chance (or the energy), but it was embarrassingly slow going. Thank you to everyone who's been commenting, leaving kudos and subscribing!!! I logged in for the first time yesterday to find that this has more than 100 subscribers now, which sort of blew me away. You're all wonderful and I appreciate you joining me on this little experimental venture of mine and hanging in there with me while life made it's own plans!

The next few weeks pass sluggishly. The morning sickness comes and goes in waves throughout the day, making the consumption of anything more substantial than toast and tea  _—_ _especially_ at breakfast _—_ a rather nebulous endeavor. Sherlock attempts to give up tea for all of one day, before the craving sends him on frenetic research binge. Hours of reading brings him to the reassuring conclusion that, so long as he limits his intake to only one cup a day, the effect of the caffeine itself is really no more harmful to the fetus than the effect of his withdrawal from it.

And anyways, so far as addictive substances go, caffeine is really quite low on the list of his poor habits.

His initial hope that his familiarity with missing meals will work in his favour entirely misses the mark entirely. Instead, he finds himself increasingly exhausted and morose; the surge of hormones through his system sending his moods on an even more dizzyingly mercurial spiral than usual. With his normally suppressed emotions on constant razor’s-edge, even the dispiriting death of Ms. Adler leaves him far more affected than usual.

He knows full well that his behaviour has begun to grate on John more than usual, but he’s unable to force himself out from his slump. On a daily basis he veers between an anxious desire to tell John, and a crippling fear of the potential reaction. This, of course, inevitably leads to his traitorous brain extrapolating the various negative outcomes of John somehow making the discovery for himself, and that fear rapidly balloons into panic.

In the end, he decides it best to keep his secret entirely to himself for the time being.

In his brief bursts of energy, he finds himself either fitfully composing a new lullabye on his violin, or attempting to crack the passcode of Irene’s mobile. The later is especially unsuccessful, which only serves to frustrate him further.

And then, just as he’s begun considering giving the phone over to Mycroft and washing his hands of it, an unfamiliar woman appears at their doorstep and whisks John away with her.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock watches attentively from the upstairs window as John clearly mistakes the woman for one of Mycroft’s lackeys.

Which is laughable, considering that Mycroft’s nothing if not tediously predictable. While it's true that he does indeed have a number of lackeys, it's simply _unthinkable_ that he'd send any of them other than Anthea to collect John. As his chief PA, she's the only one cleared for managing ‘family matters’ on her own. Which anything that involves John most certainly counts as.

Also, the model of sedan is completely wrong.

It’s the short work of a moment for Sherlock to fire off a few texts to his network, to ensure that he’s kept abreast of where the car is headed. He scrambles to change out of his pyjamas, and a mere handful of minutes later sees him climbing into a cab headed toward Battersea power station. Thanks to his intimate knowledge of the thoroughfares of London he even manages to arrive just in the wake of John and the mystery Beta.

He quietly shadows them through the structure, keeping them in his sights as best as possible, while carefully remaining _out_ of theirs.

“Couldn’t we just go to a café?” John queries the woman in a playful tone as she leads him wordlessly through to the upper levels. “Sherlock doesn’t follow me _everywhere_.”

The consulting detective in question barely represses a snort of laughter at that.

The suggestion garners no response, as the Beta merely taps something into her mobile and makes no acknowledgement of John until she directs him toward an open entryway at the end of the catwalk. In the very least, she’s done an admirable job of _mimicking_ Anthea’s behaviour.

As he covertly passes her from behind a series of pipes, Sherlock sees the Beta lift the phone to her ear. “He’s on his way. You were right,” she smiles into the receiver, “he thinks it's Mycroft.”

John’s just entering the cavernous control room as Sherlock stations himself behind a wall of pipes, and peers silently through a sliver of space between two of them. Whoever it is awaiting him, there nowhere to be seen just yet. It’s not Mycroft _—_ that much is definite _—_ but unfortunately that still leaves the lingering question as to who, exactly, it _is_.

“He’s writing sad music, doesn’t eat, barely talks _—_ only to correct the television,” John declares to the room at large as he executes a slow turn, to better examine the entirety of the space. “I’d say he was heartbroken but, uh, well, he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyw-”

John’s words die on his tongue when a figure emerges from the shadows amongst the control panels, and Sherlock feels the bottom of his stomach drop away.

_Oh._

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” Irene Adler purrs, and Sherlock’s own surprise is mirrored in John, who answers in a low angry growl.

“Tell him you’re alive.”

Irene shakes her head regretfully. “He’d come after me.”

Sherlock frowns thoughtfully. Would he? Probably. If only to find out how she did it. Not that he'll need to now. Convenient that.

“ _I’ll_ come after you if you don’t.” John promises with something dark and dangerous in his tone that sends a low shiver of inappropriately timed desire down Sherlock's spine.

“Mmm,” Irene hums and purses her lips in moue of interest that has Sherlock’s Omega baring it's teeth at her. _He's mine._ “I believe you.”

“You were dead on a slab,” John aggressively states the obvious in his usual manner, “it was _definitely_ you.”

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep,” she parries and John responds with a sour scoff.

“And I bet you know the record-keeper.”

“I know what he likes,” she acknowledges with a careless shrug, “and I needed to disappear.”

Clever enough he supposes. Fails to account for the rather convenient appearance of a corpse perfectly matching her own measurements however. A passable match would have been easy enough to acquire, but one specific enough to fool _him_ at close quarters rather implies more… _deliberate_ procurement.

“Then how come I can see you,” John seethes through his teeth, “when I don’t even want to?”

“Look, I made a mistake,” she blithely brushes aside John’s ire. “I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping, and now I need it back, so I need your help.”

“No.”

“It’s for his own safety,” she bargains, plainly attempting to manipulate John by way of playing his protective instincts toward Sherlock against him.

Not terribly well thought out.

She’s either entirely oblivious to or grossly miscalculating the depth of John's obstinance. Why _is_ it that no one ever expects John's stubborn streak? He may be recognized as an Alpha, but his inclination to behave like one seems to be constantly underestimated.

Perhaps it's the jumpers.

“So’s this _—_ ” John rejoins, entirely unruffled, ”tell him you’re alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Fine,” John nods sharply. “ _I’ll_ tell him, and I _still_ won’t help you.” He pivots on his heel and begins marching away in the soldierly manner he habitually reverts to in anger. Sherlock tenses, prepared to make his own escape before he's spotted.

Best not to let on how often he _does_ follow John.

“What do I say?” Irene calls after John beseechingly, halting him in his tracks.

“What do you normally say?” John explodes unexpectedly as he wheels back and stalks aggressively toward her. “You’ve texted him _a_ _lot_.”

Sherlock rocks back on his heels slightly in his hiding place, surprised by the vehemence of the reaction. It would appear that John had disapproved of Irene’s rather indiscreet attempt at courtship even more than he’d let on.

 _Because we’re his_ , the Omega inside of him whispers insistently, and despite his desperate desire to agree, he gathers his resolves and forces himself to rebuff it.

 _No. We are not, and never will be_ his, _you ridiculous creature,_ he hisses internally.

“Just the usual stuff,“ Irene defends with a nonchalant shrug as she pulls a sleek black mobile out from the folds of her stylish wrap.

“There is no _usual_ in this case,“ John belligerently shakes his head.

“Good morning; I like your funny hat; I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner…” She reads the messages aloud in a tone of mild amusement. “You looked sexy on ‘Crimewatch’, let’s have dinner. I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.”

“You... _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?” John asks with such utter disbelief that Sherlock can’t help but feel mildly offended.

Is it really so unthinkable to imagine an Alpha flirting with him?

He can’t see why it would be _—_ it happens often enough when they’re on cases. Though the frequency of it has died down since John moved into Baker Street and began being constantly mistaken for Sherlock’s Alpha, it certainly hasn’t ceased altogether.

“ _At_ him,” Irene corrects pointedly without so much as lifting her eyes from her mobile screen. “He never replies.“

“No,” John argues mulishly, “Sherlock _always_ replies _—_ to everything! He’s Mr Punchline. He will outlive _God_ trying to have the last word.“

Well _that_ seems a bit of an unfair exaggeration.

And hardly true. If it _were_ , then why would John be forever complaining about Sherlock’s failure to reply to his texts about ‘Milk’ this or ‘Can you stop off at Tesco’ that?

Of course he never replies to _her._ It would only encourage her.

“Does that make me special?” She looks up from her phone with a pleased little smirk.

John hesitates a beat before answering, while Sherlock scrunches his nose in distaste. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 _No, John, absolutely not! Why on earth would_ she _be special? Why would I be interested in any other Alpha when I already have you?_

 _Changing your tune now suddenly, are you?_ His Omega questions derisively. _I thought you just said we aren’t his._

_Oh, shut up._

“Are you jealous?” Irene taunts with a quirk of her lips, interrupting Sherlock’s inner squabble.

“We’re not a couple,” John counters defensively and Sherlock tries to ignore the painful throb in his chest at the words.

“Yes, you are,” she announces dismissively as she taps away at her mobile. “There,” she declares, as she turns her phone to face John. “I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner,” She recites, then presses the send button as John turns away from her with a shake of his head.

_Blast._

Sherlock scrabbles at his pocket in a desperate bid to preemptively silence his mobile. He just manages to fish it out as John speaks up again from the other side of the pipes.

“Who... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes,” he huffs, “but –for the record– if anyone out there still cares, I'm _not_ actually interested in Omegas.”

Sherlock’s hand freezes in midair, clutching his phone tightly. There’s a bleak sort of swooping sensation in the pit of his belly and his face tingles discomfitingly.

“Well, neither am I,” Irene replies wistfully. “Look at us both.”

When John merely barks a short, bitter laugh in response, that small part of Sherlock that's purely, uncomplicatedly, Omega withers up inside of him piteously. For once, he can’t even think of anything punishing to say to it.

In his hand his phone sighs, and the sound rings out loudly through the empty corridor.

With a push of his thumb, he switches it off and swiftly walks away.

 

* * *

 

He makes his way back to Baker Street in a daze, finding himself on the doorstep of 221B without really recalling how he'd arrived there. When he spots the signs of Mrs. Hudson’s rough handling it snaps him out of his fugue instantly.

Ah yes, that supposed danger that Irene had warned about.

When he reaches the stop of the stairs and pushes open the door of the flat, he’s somewhat unsurprised to discover the American Alpha from Irene’s townhouse. He aims a pistol menacingly at the back of Mrs. Hudson's head whilst she quietly weeps, while two thuggish Beta’s, one more familiar than the other, lurk on either side of the room. Apparently their leader found a replacement for the subordinate that Irene’s gun so tidily dispatched.

Though, judging by the glower that the surviving Beta levels Sherlock’s from the kitchen doorway, the casualty hasn’t exactly been forgotten.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sobs piteously when she catches sight of him.“Sherlock!”

“Don’t snivel, Mrs Hudson. It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet,” he chides, meeting the Alpha’s eyes over her head. “What a tender world that would be.”

“I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes,” the Alpha cocks his head, unmoved by her tears.

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” He crosses the room and holds out his hand to Mrs. Hudson, squeezing gently when she grasps it immediately. He turns back her sleeve carefully and ghosts his thumb over the bruise he finds there as she whimpers.

“I’ve been asking this one,” the Alpha gestures to Mrs. Hudson with the muzzle of his gun. “She doesn’t seem to know anything.” Sherlock’s eyes catch on a tear on the shoulder of her cardigan as the man continues, then the small cut on her cheek. He flicks his eyes to the ring on the Alpha’s gun hand, and the droplet of blood still congealing in the setting. He stares at it, feeling the slow roil of rage inside of him as the man continues. “But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr Holmes?”

“I believe I do,” he agrees as he releases Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “First though, get rid of your boys.”

“Why?” The corner of the Alpha’s mouth curls into a condescending sneer. “Are you _afraid_ of them, Omega?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I dislike being outnumbered _—_ it makes for too much _stupid_ in the room.

The Alpha narrows his eyes and waits a beat before addressing his men. “You two, go to the car.”

“Then get _into_ the car and drive away,” Sherlock adds, with a dismissive glance in the Betas’ direction. He turns back to glare at the Alpha contemptuously. “Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn’t _work.”_

The man stares him down for a few moments, and his Betas shift impatiently on their feet. Finally the Alpha inclines his head at his men, and they make their way down the stairs.

“Next,” Sherlock continues, “you can stop pointing that gun at me.”

“So you can point a gun at _me?”_ The Alpha coolly raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock steps back and willingly spreads his arms wide. “I’m unarmed.”

“Mind if I check?”

“Oh, I _insist,”_ Sherlock smirks.

 

* * *

 

Dealing with the Alpha himself is nothing short of gratifying.

Both summary justice for the ill treatment of Mrs. Hudson, and a cathartic release for all his recently pent up frustrations. Even John's arrival doesn't dampen his enjoyment of it in the slightest. It's reassuring on a primal level to know that, even now, despite of the diminutive stowaway inside of him, he's still perfectly capable of defending his territory.

Much later, once he's done dealing with Lestrade, and the American brute has been carted off in satisfyingly damaged state, he rejoins Mrs. Hudson and John in the cozy warmth of her kitchen. His stomach grumbles demandingly as he wipes his shoes on the mat, and he immediately goes to raid the fridge, unable to ignore the gnawing hunger pangs for another moment.

While John argues with endearingly misplaced concern for sending Mrs. Hudson away to visit her sister, Sherlock triumphantly lays claim to a mince pie.

“Don’t be absurd,” he scolds John with mock seriousness as he bites into it with ravenous delight, barely managing to contain a moan of pleasure. It's remarkable how much better everything tastes during these brief lulls in his nausea.

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone.” John huffs, apparently taking Sherlock’s teasing at face value. “Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know,” Sherlock replies cryptically, casting his gaze down at Mrs. Hudson in amusement, his mood undeniably buoyed by both his snack and the satisfying little spot of violence. She sniffles and reaches down her shirt to pull the very mobile in question from her bra, offering it up to him.

“You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot.” She reminds him with a tired chuckle, resting her head in the cradle of her palm. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” He gives it a jaunty toss up in the air as he thanks her, then slips it into his pocket.

John gapes at the two of them in confused astonishment and Sherlock can hardly restrain hinself from rolling his eyes. Surely the man has realized by now that Mrs. Hudson is made of sturdier stuff. She'd been married to a drug lord and murder for _decades_ for pity’s sake!

Well, he may as well have a bit of fun.

“Shame on you, John Watson,” he cheekily declares with a theatrical scowl.

“Shame on me?!” John demands, blinking up at Sherlock with startled indignation.

“Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?” Sherlock elaborates, reaching down to wrap his arm about her shoulders and tug her affectionately against his hip. “ _England would fall._ ”

She clutches his hand to her shoulder and laughs heartily as she strokes it. John's outrage melts away immediately in the face of her delight, and a soft smile slowly creeps across his face. The sweet, domestic affection warms Sherlock to his very core. He allows himself to bask contentedly for a short while, carefully committing every detail of it to his mind palace.

Once John has departed from Baker Street, it will be just another memory for him to treasure.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson insists on whipping them up an impromptu late-night meal, and Sherlock happily takes advantage of the current calm of his stomach to heartily partake of it. Once the meal is devoured and the dishes cleared away, they bid Mrs. Hudson goodnight and leave her to her nightly herbal soother.

Upstairs, John rebuilds the fire, then awkwardly makes small talk about the bloody camera phone while he fixes himself a drink. Sherlock stands in the window overlooking Baker Street as he gently tunes his violin and waits patiently for John to get around to asking what he really wants to. Finally, John sighs heavily behind him and comes out with it.

“So, she’s alive then,” he states with an odd hesitancy, as if carefully choosing his every word. “How are we feeling about that?”

Sherlock keeps his back turned and pretends to continue fiddling with the tuning pegs as he considers the question. How _does_ he feel about it?

Irritated that she’d managed to so thoroughly fool him; what with his attention so badly compromised by his distracting little secret. Pleased that her story hadn’t turned out to be another disheartening, precautionary tale about the dangers of straying from one’s expected role, after all. Entirely indifferent to the matter in the face of his far more… _personal_ concerns.

His contemplation of the matter apparently drags on longer than John cares for, because he cautiously pipes up again after a few moments.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?

 _That_ question, on the other hand, is a far simpler one to answer. Of _course_ he’ll be seeing her again. He has her precious camera phone, after all, doesn't he? She’s hardly about to give up on _that_ without a fight. And he can’t deny that he feels a certain degree of anticipation for the inevitable encounter. She is an intriguing opponent, after all, and it promises to be an interesting diversion at the very least.

Obviously it’s one of those rhetorical questions John’s so fond of, so he says nothing. John never likes it much when he answers those.

In any case, more importantly, he’s learned what he needed to know… Needed to hear aloud, once and for all. Despite his fanciful hopes, he knows with certainty now what will happen when he tells John about the baby.

With that in mind, he may as well indulge himself and savour every moment he has left with his Alpha before he’s gone.

He turns back to John, carefully avoiding his eyes for one last moment as he collects himself. Once he’s certain that he can meet John’s eyes without giving anything away, he raises his gaze and begins to play.

He pointedly disregards the dull ache in his chest when John offers him a soft smile, and settles back into his chair to listen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is still nuts, so writing continues to be a little slower going than I'd like, but thank goodness for the weekend and being able to pull incredibly late-nighters! If you'll take notice of the newly defined chapter count, the end is now in sight my friends! I might still have to up the chapter count by one, but at the moment, with what I currently have written and sketched out, I _think_ that there's about two left in this before I wrap things up. Here's hoping!

Over the next week, Sherlock furtively commences in his campaign to luxuriate in John’s presence as much as possible, before his blogger’s inevitable departure. He takes care to be as subtle as possible, so as not to attract John’s notice to it, but relishes every touch to a degree he’s never allowed himself.

In all honesty, he’s not even sure he’s ever _has_ desired it quite to this extent before.

His research indicates that it’s a natural side effect of Omega pregnancy; a holdover from the days of yore, meant to ensure the continuation of the pregnancy through the delicate first trimester, when the presence of the sire is most crucial. Keeping that in mind, he stores up every moment in John’s newly expanded wing within his mind palace, to draw upon for the baby’s optimal development following John’s impending desertion.

His Omega thrives inside of him, relishing the sudden increase in contact with what it considers to be it’s Alpha. Given the circumstances, he can’t be bothered to discourage it, and instead chooses to allow it greater reign.

It instinctively knows better than he precisely what they need, after all.

And so, he finds himself following John about, not unlike a mongrel dog; trailing his steps around the flat, discreetly following him from a distance when he ventures out, and _—_ despite the persisting morning sickness _—_ determinedly choking down the meals that John sets before him. Thankfully, John doesn’t seem to notice, nor does he bring up Irene Adler or the conversation that he knows Sherlock overheard between the two Alpha’s again.

Not that Sherlock needs the reminder, what with every word of it seared into his brain.

The ultimate test of John’s lack of awareness comes in the evenings, as Sherlock edges continually closer to the Alpha on the sofa every night whilst they watch telly.

He builds his courage slowly; first draping his feet over John’s lap, or tucking his toes beneath a warm, sturdy thigh. With each successive evening in which John _doesn’t_ spring from the sofa to point an accusatory finger at him, he grows bolder. On Saturday night, he finally manages his ultimate goal, and folds the entirety of his body neatly in against John’s side.

He settles his head on the smaller man’s shoulder, where the comforting Alpha scent is strongest, and surreptitiously breathes in deep lungfuls of it. The ensuing calm and contentment is not unlike the most relaxing high he’s ever achieved.

When John absently shifts in his seat and leans even more closely into him, his Omega curls up inside and _purrs._

 

* * *

 

Two days and two more successfully unnoticed cuddles later, he decides to join John on a trip to Tesco’s to do the shopping. John makes a frankly offensive fuss over the decision, which Sherlock magnanimously chooses to overlook, in favour of enjoying the admittedly plebeian, but nevertheless strangely alluring, interlude of content domesticity.

As they wander the aisles, and John maintains a running commentary on the price of produce and merits of a specific brand of strawberry jam over the others, Sherlock eyes the other shoppers. He’s always known that he and John, with their contrasting appearances, attract their fair share of attention, but now he’s more aware of it than ever.

It’s clear that everyone takes them for a couple.

Understandable, considering the general unlikelihood of an unbonded Omega being in the company of an _obviously_ unrelated Alpha in public. When their scents make it clear upon closer approach that they’re unbonded, the more conservative types shoot them scandalized grimaces over the fruit and veg.

All in all, it’s an interesting social experiment, and regardless, the Omega in him is thrilled, as always, to be mistaken for John’s mate in public.

It preens delightedly when a pretty Beta woman sizes John up admiringly, only to frown in disappointment when she notices Sherlock. The disbelieving looks and head-shakes that two separate Alphas and one burly male Beta direct at John following their interested leers at Sherlock on the other hand, leave it puffed up with indignation.

 _How_ dare _they judge his mate and find him wanting? Surely they don’t imagine that_ they’re _so much as worthy of comparison._

As quickly as that train of thought begins leaving the station, Sherlock curbs his Omega before it can get carried away and make a scene. He does, however, grant it a small morsel of satisfaction; leaning in close to John and summarily deducing each of them in turn within an inch of their lives.

When John lets loose a delighted, uproarious laugh, Sherlock’s lips curl upward into a pleased smile of their own. Then a thought strikes him, and the smile falters.

If only John weren’t so staunchly uninterested in Omegas, this could be their life together. _Permanently._

He allows himself to enjoy the fantasy of it for a moment: the two of them a year from now, fresh from the triumphant completion of another case. Hurriedly nipping out to the shops, whilst their child naps at home in 221B, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson. He’d make John laugh, just like now, by dissecting the less pleasant or especially interesting of their fellow shoppers. They’d return home just as the little one was stirring, and John would set to preparing dinner, while Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson would take turns helping and dandling the baby on their knee, so he or she can watch everything with inquisitive little eyes.

When John continues on down the aisle, Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a long, deep breath through his nose.

It’s a pleasant fantasy.

 

* * *

 

He should have known that things were going entirely too well to last.

The entirety of the walk home, John is positively _chipper_. He shares an amusing story from his last shift at the surgery, then listens with a bright smile and burble of laughter as Sherlock recounts a related tale from one of his early cases, involving the dangers of mixing erectile dysfunction pharmaceuticals with recreational drugs.

When they return home, Sherlock barely reaches the door of the flat when his newly hypersensitive nose catches the scent. It's bold, but sweet; like licorice and dates, and quite familiar. Sniffing delicately, he follows it to it's source, through the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom.

He frowns down at the sight that greets him when he pushes open the door.

“John,” he calls down the hall, keeping his eyes trained on Irene Adler as he steps up to his bedside, where she's curled up asleep, covering the faint hint of John's scent left on his sheets with her own, content as you please. “We have a client.”

“What,” John questions with amusement as he makes his way from the kitchen, “in your bedroom?”

He freezes in the doorway, the smile dropping from his face instantly when his eyes alight on Irene. His grip on the bottle of wine in his hand tenses visibly and then his face goes carefully blank before he swivels on his heel and walks away without a word.

 

* * *

 

Irene avails herself of their shower once Sherlock gently shakes her awake. He loans her his best dressing gown while John hangs her damp clothes up to dry. It’s decidedly the least threadbare, and he’d prefer to go without another display of her… assets.

While he and John question her, however, his scent on the dressing gown mixes with her own _—_ mimicking the scent of a bond, and serving as a constant distraction. His Omega recoils from the smell in disgust, leaving him feeling territorial and on edge.

He’d like nothing more than to just solve her case, and get her and her alien Alpha scent out of their flat.

Not that he won’t still try beating her at her game while he does so.

 

* * *

 

When John takes his red herring about taking out a safety deposit box at face value, and quickly concocts a delightfully thorough plan to deliver the flat, Sherlock can’t help but feel a little swell of pride in his chest.

“Very good, John,” he commends with a smile. “Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions,” he adds as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cameraphone in question.

“Thank you,” John replies as he reaches for his own mobile to begin coordinating. “So, why don’t we…” He glances up just as Sherlock holds the phone up to inspect it and visibly deflates. “Oh, for…”

“So,” Sherlock queries Irene curiously as he turns the phone about in his hand. “What _do_ you keep on here– in general, I mean?”

“Pictures, information,” Irene shrugs, “anything I might find useful.”

“What, for blackmail?” John quips.

“For _protection_.” Irene corrects. “I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

So, blackmail then.

“And how do you acquire this information?”

“I told you–” she grins wolfishly, “I misbehave.”

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.” Sherlock leans back in his chair with a disinterested roll of his eyes. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes,” she acknowledges begrudgingly, “but I don’t understand it. “

 _Obviously._ Perhaps if she spent less time trying to be provocative and more time _thinking_.

“I assumed. Show me.” She extends her hand expectantly for the phone and he raises it up out of her reach. “The passcode,” he demands. She doesn’t so much as blink, continuing to hold her palm out patiently toward him. After a few terse moments, he relents and hands it over.

They’ll hardly make any progress if they spend the entire afternoon trying to see which of them is more stubborn.

She switches on the screen and immediately angles the phone _just_ so, to ensure that neither he nor John can see the keypad. Four soft clicks later, the phone beeps warningly.

“It’s not working,” she frowns, and he rises from his chair to pluck it from her fingers.

“No,” he agrees, glancing down at the screen. “Because it’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers one, oh, five, eight.” He strides across the room to his chair and fishes the real phone out from beneath the cushions. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.”

He enters the pin into the real mobile as he walks back toward the table, then stops and stares incredulously as the phone beeps in his hand just as the dupe had. He raises his eyes from the screen to find Irene smirking triumphantly up at him with crossed arms.

“I _told_ you that camera phone was my life,” she taunts, “I _know_ when it’s in my hand.”

He raises his brows in reluctant admiration as he stares down at her. “Oh, you're rather good,” he admits as he offers her the real mobile.

And really, he can’t help but be honestly quite impressed. It’s a rare occasion for anyone to successfully manage to trick _him._ Her lips quirk as she gazes intensely back up at him and accepts the proffered device.

“You're not so bad.”

Then her scent hit his nose as she preens and leans slightly into him, in what’s clearly meant to be a seductive manner, and it’s all he can do not to gag as his body reacts instinctively.

Ah. How embarrassing; apparently she’s misinterpreted the admiration in his gaze for something else entirely. Just as he’s about to take a broad step backward and politely reject her advances _—_ _again—_ John cuts in.

“Hamish,” he announces suddenly from his seat at the desk, and Sherlock turns to him in confusion _._ “John Hamish Watson, just _—_ if you were... looking for baby names.” John clarifies, so deliberately offhand and carelessly affable that Sherlock’s almost convinced, but there’s a hard edge in his eyes that belies it.

Then John’s words sink in and Sherlock’s pulse kicks into high gear, thoughts whirling in a chaotic, panicked rush.

 _Baby_ _names?_

Has John realized then; about the baby?

It’s too soon; _much_ too soon. There’s still too much of a risk yet, if John should... Though _—_ him suggesting a name _does_ seem to imply…

But what was it that gave it away? And why _now?_

_Wait._

Sherlock knits his brow and forces himself to calm and focus. He scans John carefully, taking in every infinitesimal detail and tell that he can. As he does, John frowns, his eyes darting to Irene then back, and then he softens, smiling hesitantly up at Sherlock.

 _Oh—_ John hasn’t realized _anything_. John was implying that Sherlock might… with _Irene_.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in mild distaste and moves away from her to sit across from John at the table. No need to feed into _that_ preposterous notion.

Not that he’s at all denying what Irene’s been obviously attempting. While he’d been concerned about her potential interest in _John_ the first time they’d met,given her proclivities for other Alphas, it’s since grown exceedingly clear that her interest lies distinctly in his _own_ direction.

Despite what anyone may think, he's not _actually_ oblivious to these sort of overtures, especially when they’re _that_ persistent _._ He merely _chooses_ to ignore them.

No, she's definitely courting him and he's definitely _not_ interested.

Besides, would she be so eager if she knew he was carrying the offspring of another Alpha in his belly?

He thinks _not_.

 

* * *

 

In short order, she explains the MOD providence of the code, and hands back the phone to show him the snapshot that she’d taken of it. He smirks at her comment about having had one of the ‘best cryptographers in the country’ look it over for her. If the man really _was_ just that, he’s undoubtedly one of Mycroft’s.

 _There’s_ an tidbit worth lording over his brother sometime in the near future. For an overbearing, pompous busybody, he certainly seems to have a questionable hold over his staff.

The added bonus of having the opportunity to show up Mycroft’s carefully cultivated

consortium is just icing on the cake.

“Go on,” Irene urges as she leans in over his shoulder to press a kiss to his cheek. “Impress a girl.”

His eyes flick toward her lips momentarily as he shivers minutely in distaste. There’s only one person he feels any desire at all to impress, and it’s certainly not _her._

He scans the code rapidly, his synapses firing at breakneck speed. The answer comes to him within seconds, and he can’t help but be somewhat disappointed. _If_ this _is too complicated for your people to break, Mycroft, then your standards certainly are slipping._ He rattles off his conclusion summarily, then lifts his eyes from the screen to look to John expectantly.

Disappointingly, John merely blinks at him in bafflement, rather than launching into his usual volley of adulation.

With an irritated huff, Sherlock speeds through an in-depth elaboration of his deduction, then rises from to hand the phone back to Irene. “Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing,” he informs her tetchily, “John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language.”

 _Though another go at it wouldn’t be amiss, John_.

“I would have you right here, on this desk,” Irene declares fervently, gazing up at him with a predatory gleam in her eyes, “until you begged for mercy; _twice._ ”

He stares back down at her thoughtfully. That doesn’t sound terribly appealing _—_ do people actually _like_ that? Then again… on second thought, he _does_ recall doing a substantial amount of pleading over the course of his heat with John. None of which ended at all unpleasantly.

Quite the opposite.

He feels a stir of arousal low in in belly at just the thought of it, and quickly moves to redirect his thoughts before his reaction becomes embarrassingly noticeable. The _last_ thing he needs is for her to misconstrue _that._ “John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?”

“Yeah, I'm on it, yeah.” John stammers, flushing inexplicably and pulling his laptop close to focus in on it determinedly.

Sherlock momentarily turns his attention back to Irene to inform her: “I've never begged for mercy in my life.”

“Twice,“ she reiterates, without so much as a flinch.

 

* * *

 

While John researches as instructed, Sherlock retreats to his chair to further consider _what_ , exactly, might be so special about a plane departing for Baltimore that would attract the amount of trouble that Irene’s brought upon herself. After an exhaustive survey of the archives of his Mind Palace, the answer dawns on him.

“Coventry,” he announces, coming to in a room decidedly darker than he recalls. There’s a warm fire crackling in the hearth, Irene is curled up contentedly in John’s chair across from him, and there’s no sign of the man himself anywhere to be seen.

“I’ve never been,’ Irene replies with a serene smile. “Is it nice?”

“Where’s John?” He questions, casting an inquisitive eye about the room.

“He went out a couple of hours ago.”

“I was just talking to him,” he insists with a frown.

“He said you do that,” she divulges as her smile deepens. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

“It’s a story,” he explains, “probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to know that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.”

“Have you ever had anyone?” Irene asks suddenly, entirely apropos of nothing, and Sherlock frowns in confusion.

“Sorry?“

“And when I say ‘had’,” she elaborates with a lascivious smile, “I’m being indelicate.”

“I don’t understand.”

What on _earth_ does his sexual history have to do with anything?

“Well, I’ll be delicate then,” she amends, rising from her chair and crossing the space between them to kneel at his feet. She reaches up and curls her fingers around his hand where it dangles over the edge of his armrest. “Let’s have dinner.”

He studies her open, inviting expression impassively. How curious that she remains so persistent, despite his show of complete disinterest to date.

Is it just pheromones, plain and simple? An instinctual, irresistible desire, despite her avowed personal preferences?

And, if _that's_ the case _—_ why _her?_ Why can't his presence elicit the same reaction in the one Alpha that _he_ wants?

“Why?” He finds himself asking aloud, as if she might have the answers for him.

“Might be hungry.” She posits with a mischievous quirk of her brows.

“I’m not,” he declares, quite definitely. He’s decidedly _not_ hungry; metaphorically or otherwise. The one thing about pregnancy that he’s found to be drastically under-exaggerated is the nausea. Morning sickness? More like all-the-time sickness.

He really wishes she’d either pick a different one, or abandon the metaphors altogether. Even the very _thought_ of dinner makes his stomach churn uneasily. He’s never had an excessive love of food, but this is frankly absurd. And not at all evolutionarily explainable _—_ how on earth is a fetus supposed to receive the essential nutrition it requires if it won’t let him keep anything down?

“Good.” Irene smiles up at him, completely oblivious to his current train of thought.

He shakes himself internally and refocuses. He needs take advantage of this situation to get as much out of her as he possibly can.

“Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” He feigns ignorance and slides forward slightly in his seat, twisting his hand in her grasp to press his fingers against her wrist. Irene’s leans forward on her knees, her gaze fixedly pointedly on his mouth.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to remain still, despite the way his Omega insistently demands that they avoid the touch of any Alpha other than their baby’s sire.

“Oh, Mr Holmes...” she sighs breathily, “...if it was the end of the world _—_ if this was the very last night _—_ would you have dinner with me?”

Brushing his fingertips against the underside of her wrist, he curiously watches her pupils dilate. She wants him; _desperately_.

No _._  She’s _in love_ with him.

God knows why. She doesn’t even actually _know_ him _—_ she only _thinks_ that she does. He contemplates it fleetingly anyways; never one to disregard _anything_ without giving it at least _momentary_ consideration.

He could let her take him to bed; he has no doubt that she’d be able to introduce him to any number of deliciously agonizing pleasures. She _is_ a professional after all. He could run off with her, and let her bond him once his heats have returned, and the baby is nothing more than a troubling memory. Let her sink her teeth into his neck and claim him as _hers_. They could take on the world; the two of them could be unstoppable together.

It’s tempting, in it’s own right.

But his heart wouldn’t be in it. It’s not his to give away anymore.

It belongs to a certain compact ex-army doctor with a temper, and a profound love of tea and jumpers. And to the small new person growing inside himself. Regardless of the smooth, unblemished skin on his neck where a bondbite would be, he’s irrevocably spoken for.

Mrs. Hudson's voice breaks the silence before he can let her down easily.

“Sherlock!”

“Too late,” Irene whispers ruefully from his feet as she releases his hand.

“That’s not the end of the world,” he corrects her dispassionately, “that’s Mrs Hudson.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the finish line!!! \o/  
> While it's looking more likely that there will be a 12th chapter after all, I can't believe this part of the series is almost done- and how _lengthy_ it's gotten, holy bananas. I've got the next John POV Interlude started up already and then the next part of the story back in Sherlock's POV sketched out for after that. (I'm also working on a standalone Mycroft off-shoot, but that one will _definitely_ not be for everyone.) Thank you all for the continued encouragement, and for putting up with the complete deterioration of my posting schedule!

On a plane full of corpses parked on a tarmac at Heathrow, Sherlock is sideswiped entirely by the mortifying realization of just how thoroughly Irene has used him to betray his own brother. Though he’ll never openly admit it, Mycroft’s plan had been entirely ingenious, and it pains him to have ruined it. Somehow worse is his brother’s disappointment, and _apology_ for having steered Sherlock into Irene Adler’s path to begin with.

The humiliation of Irene’s condescending dismissal before she pushes past him to taunt Mycroft is insignificant in comparison.

“There’s more _—_   _loads_ more,” she snidely promises Mycroft, holding that thrice-damned cameraphone up to face him. “On this phone I’ve got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me… unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own Omega dependens.”

When Mycroft fails to respond with a witty rejoinder, submissively lowering his eyes and turning away, the bottom of Sherlock’s stomach swoops away. Shame burns hot and heavy in his belly, and the Omega inside of him curls up miserably in contrition over having failed their kin.

 

* * *

 

When the car shuttling the three of them away from Heathrow pulls up in front of Mycroft’s own townhome in Queen Anne’s Gate, Sherlock is momentarily surprised. Then, with a wince, he recalls the necessity for Mycroft to minimise the knowledge of his brother’s involvement in the situation as much as possible. When Mycroft shows them to the formal dining room, Sherlock plants himself in one of the armchairs by the fireplace to lick his wounds.

He squeezes the arms of his chair rhythmically beneath his fingers, in an effort to contain the anger roiling just below his deliberately placid surface, and watches silently as Irene triumphantly swans across the room to seat herself near the head of the table.

“I believe that we’ll be quite alright for the time being Mrs. Danvers. Thank you,” Mycroft politely dismisses his housekeeper when she inquires as to whether any tea or refreshments are required, preemptively cutting Irene off just as she opens her mouth. With an amused lift of her brows, Irene pointedly places the camera phone down on the table top between them.

As soon as the door silently falls shut in her wake, Mycroft jabs a finger toward the camera phone where it lies between he and Irene on the table top.

“We have people who can get into this,” he stubbornly insists.

“I tested that theory for you,” she points out with barely contained glee. “I let _Sherlock Holmes_ try it.”

In his seat, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace, a rush of pained mortification making his gut contract in a disagreeable manner.

“Sherlock, dear,” Irene calls out in the patronizing tone of someone asking their pet to perform a trick. Or an Alpha with an Omega firmly under their thumb. “Tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone.”

“There are four additional units wired inside the casing; I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive,” he recites woodenly, “any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive.”

“Explosive,” Irene confirms. “It’s more me.”

“Some data is always recoverable,” Mycroft argues in reply, and Sherlock marvels at his brother’s ability to keep any element of desperation from his tone.

“Take that risk?”

“You have a passcode to open this,” Mycroft’s states calmly before his tone drops, taking on the menacing quality of barely contained Alpha threat. “I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.”

“Sherlock?” Irene prompts again, without even the slightest hint of concern.

“There will be two passcodes,” he informs his brother bitterly. “One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can’t know which one she’s given you, and there will be no point in a second attempt.”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Irene praises delightedly. “I should have him on a leash!” She pauses thoughtfully before adding; “In fact, I _might_.”

It's all that Sherlock can do to keep from snarling and baring his teeth at her. _Over his dead body._ Quite literally; he'd much rather die than submit to her. For the first time in his life, he’s absurdly glad of Mycroft’s de facto ownership of him. He can't think of an Alpha that Mycroft that would be _less_ likely to permit to claim Sherlock.

“We destroy this, then,” Mycroft announces with sudden with bluster. “Then no-one has the information.”

“Fine,” Irene shrugs indifferently. “Good idea… _Unless_ there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”

“ _Are_ there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair,” she chides. “I’m not _playing_ any more.” With that, she reaches into her handbag to retrieve an envelope. She pushes it across the table at Mycroft, and he accepts it, opening it and removing a single folded sheet from inside. “A list of my requests,” she explains as he does so. “ _And_ some ideas about my protection once they’re granted. I’d say it wouldn’t blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation… but then I’d be lying.”

As Mycroft’s eyes make their way down the page, his eyebrows rise further up into his browline.

“I imagine you’d like to sleep on it,” she proposes.

“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft murmurs without lifting his eyes from the paper.

“Too bad,” she smirks, then reaches out to pat his knee. “Off you pop and talk to people,” she directs him.

“You’ve been very… thorough,” Mycroft sighs heavily as his eyes skim over the sheet once more before he folds it shut. “I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

“I can’t take _all_ the credit,” she demurs with false modesty before looking to Sherlock. “Had a bit of help.”

In his armchair, Sherlock cringes internally at the unneeded reminder.

“Oh!” Irene exclaims as if just having recalled something of importance, “Jim Moriarty sends his love.” Irene announces with a delighted sneer, and Sherlock raises his head attentively in his seat.

“Yes, he's been in touch.” Mycroft acknowledges sourly in reply. “Seems desperate for my attention,” his voice sinks, taking on a substantially more ominous air, “which I'm sure can be arranged.”

“I had all this stuff; never knew what to do with it.” Irene continues, undeterred, rising from her chair to saunter around to the head of the table. “ _Thank God_ for the Consultant Criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys.” She stops and perches carelessly on the edge in front of Mycroft. “Do you know what he calls you? The Iceman…” She trails her gaze slowly back toward Sherlock, “and the _Virgin_.”

Sherlock just barely resists the urge to snort unbecomingly at the intended dig. While he can hardly argue against _Mycroft’s_ little nickname, his own is rather inaccurate.

Even if one disqualifies his experiences with Victor for lack of sufficient deflowering, _John_ on the other hand, was really _quite_ thorough. Recalling Mycroft’s smug little jab at the Palace, he peers curiously over his shoulder to read his brother’s reaction, and is surprised to confirm that Mycroft truly _doesn’t_ suspect a thing _._

Good to know that he still has _some_ secrets.

“Didn’t even ask for anything,” Irene continues, “I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now _that’s_ my kind of man.”

Her words trigger a thought in Sherlock’s mind, and he considers it, drumming his fingers softly on his still-flat abdomen as he thinks. In his mind, he shuffles through the data he’d carefully collected only hours before. He compares it against the vast array of information that he’s stored on the subject over the years.

 _Surely it_ can’t _be that obvious. She wouldn’t._

_...Would she?_

“And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.” There’s a bittersweet note of admiration alongside the resignation in Mycroft’s voice, as he rises from his chair. “Nicely played.”

_Now or never._

In the depths of his mind palace, he takes a step back from the scene and observes it one last time, hesitant to take the risk of Irene Adler making a fool of him once more. His personal experience with the sentiment of love is limited; it’s especially difficult to imagine anyone losing their head in such a manner over _him._

Against his usual methods, he allows his Omega to weigh in and _—_ just like that _—_ with a bone-deep certainty, he _knows._

“No,” Sherlock announces, trusting his gut instinct, and Mycroft stops immediately in his tracks.

“Sorry?” Irene questions, disbelief colouring her voice.

“I said _no_. Very, very close; but no.” Then, with a brush of his hands over his knees, he rises from his seat to tear her world apart.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks pass uneventfully, with both John and Mycroft handling Sherlock with kid gloves; thinking him absolutely devastated by the mess with Irene. It’s laughable really, considering that the only devastating part of the entire ordeal was the realization of just how thoroughly she’d managed to dupe him.

That, and having been brought so low as to have had to _apologize_ to _Mycroft_. Regardless of his having managed to do so in a fairly inexplicit manner.

Until Irene Adler's interference, he’d managed to go _years_ without doing so.

Just because _she_ fancied herself in love him, that hardly meant that he had to return the sentiment. Why would he? He can understand Mycroft’s delusion on the matter; given his quaint assumptions about both Sherlock’s chastity, and experience with… interpersonal relations. But as to why _John_ would imagine him infatuated with Irene, for the simple sake of her being an Alpha, he cannot fathom.

 _She_ certainly wasn’t the one with whom he’d shared his heat, and it’s several days worth of surprisingly athletic intercourse.

He’s repeatedly tempted to confess his… feelings _—_   _ugh, how he_ loathes _that expression—_  but every time he attempts either, the words seem to evaporate from his tongue in a panic. He wants to delay John’s departure for as long as possible, and he can think of nothing more expediting than the confession of unsolicited infatuation.

So he keeps his sentiments to himself, and carries on with his subtle campaign of stealing snatches of John’s time, attention, and scent.

 

* * *

 

He perhaps goes a _bit_ too far, and a hair too literal, with the latter when he steals one John’s favourite woolen jumpers in a fit of impulse one afternoon.

He regrets it almost immediately; even as he squirrels it away beneath his pillows. There are few better ways to give away his pitiful longing than being caught _nesting_ with John’s belongings, after all.

For once, it’s a small blessing that John _—_ unlike Sherlock _—_ treats the concept of ‘privacy’ as a law unto itself, and thankfully the theft goes unnoticed. ...At least until several days later, when John comes thundering down the stairs from his bedroom.

“Have you seen my blue jumper anywhere?” He shouts as he rummages about in the cupboard on the landing. “You know, the one with the stripes.”

Sherlock fingers freeze on the knob of his microscope. In his mind's eye, an image of that very garment nestled away in amongst his bedclothes arises, and he swallows guiltily. For a brief moment he considers retrieving it upon some pretext about it having been mixed up with his own things.

Then John appears in the kitchen doorway, hurriedly combing his fingers through his damp hair and looking hopeful. He’s dressed in a neat button down and his best jeans, and it’s then that Sherlock sourly recalls he’s headed on a _date_ , with some new Beta woman he’d met at the pub the week before.

It’s with no small amount of relish, then, that he informs John of the jumper’s fabricated demise, in an experiment testing the level of protection provided to human flesh by the natural fibers of wool against various acids.

The conniption that immediately follows on John’s part is precisely as expected, and only serves to make Sherlock feel entirely justified in the petty manner in which he notifies John that, her interest in John lies primarily in her assumption that an Alpha doctor such as himself might be well enough off to keep her, as she’s tired of working as a secretary. And that, in any case, she's currently carrying on a lacklustre affair with her boss.

When John storms angrily from the flat in a trim black jacket that actually suits him even _better_ than the jumper did, Sherlock retires to the sitting room to spend the evening petulantly sawing away at his violin.

He stops only when John returns home a few hours later, stomping up the stairs and coming to a stop in the sitting room doorway.

John opens his mouth as if to say something, and Sherlock lowers his bow expectantly. He braces himself for something cruel and biting. Something to help snap him out of this pathetic infatuation.

Nothing comes.

For a moment they simply stare at one another, the weight of silence hanging heavy between them. Then John snaps his mouth shut with a sharp shake of his head, and turns to continue up the stairs, grumbling inaudibly all the while.

Once Sherlock sets the bow back against the strings, he finds himself playing a soothing Brahms sonata, rather than his earlier cat-scratch.

Much later, in the small hours, when he curls up in bed and buries his face in the entirely intact sweater, filling his lungs with John's scent, he decides that the subterfuge was well worth it.

 

* * *

 

The uneventfulness continues maddeningly unabated; the gradually snugger fit of his favourite tailored shirts the only real reminder of the inexorable creep of time. In the solace of his bedroom, Sherlock observes the slow changes of his body and marvels. His normally trim waist has gradually begun to thicken, and the twinging ache beneath his nipples is no longer deniable. While the changes are slight, and detectable only to himself as of yet, soon enough he won't be able to hide them any longer.

He hadn't honestly expected to have been able to keep it secret for this long; he’d been so concerned that John would catch him out too soon. But here they are at twelve weeks, and John remains resolutely, steadfastly _oblivious_. At this rate, he’s beginning to believe they may just carry on as such right up until the moment he delivers the child. The Omega in him tries not to feel slighted by the implied lack of notice from his Alpha, especially given that it works so well to his advantage, but it regardless of the attempt it still smarts.

More than anything, he's desperate to distract himself from the inexorable fact that he and John's time together is limited; but any worthy cases remain frustratingly elusive. The closest he comes to anything interesting is an admittedly poorly thought out experiment involving a harpoon, and a dead pig.

In his own defense, he’d hardly expected London cab drivers, of all people, to be so fussy.

Before long the familiar itch for his seven percent solution cure for boredom inevitably begin to build beneath his skin. But, for the very first time since Victor introduced him to it all those years ago, he’s truly determined to deny it's call.

The craving for a cigarette, on the other hand, is _far_ more unbearable.

Had he forgone enlisting John and Mrs. Hudson in his campaign to quit, he honestly isn’t sure he’d be able to deny it, despite his best intentions. Considering that he’d kept his _true_ motivation for abstaining to himself, the two have maintained a frustrating dedication to their task. In his more reasonable moments he’s endlessly appreciative, but during the peaks of his cravings... well, he’s decidedly _less_ so.

Admittedly, paying off every seller in a two mile radius was an excellent idea. It’s certainly proved to be an effective fail-safe.

A lamentable, _hatefully_ effective fail-safe.

Then, _finally—_ just when he’s tip-toeing on the very _edge_ of madness _—_ Henry Knight arrives with his fantastical tale of a monstrous hound, and game is blessedly, blissfully _on._

 

* * *

 

As he stands on the kerb while John lugs their bags to the waiting taxi, Sherlock can’t help but feel a bit as though they're headed away on holiday. The sort of short mini-break a happily bonded pair might venture off on, before late pregnancy makes travel too uncomfortable.

One last jaunt as a twosome, before the baby arrives.

It’s appalling how much his Omega merrily delights over it, despite the fact it really should know better by now.

 _That,_ he waspishly attempts to remind it as he watches Mrs. Hudson loudly make a scene with Mr. Chatterjee inside of Speedy's, _is a far closer depiction of your impending reality than any shagfest of a mini-break in the countryside._

It very pointedly ignores him, and he doesn’t press the matter any further.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive in Devon, John delightfully surprises him, as always, when he happily settles into the passenger seat of their hired car; handing the task of driving off to Sherlock without any argument. It never ceases to amaze Sherlock how the man can at once be so unquestionably, resolutely _Alpha_ , and yet so affably... _not._

They drive in companionable silence, the bleak wilds of the moors stretching out around them as far as the eye can see. When they pull off the road, and he clambers atop a tor to get a better lay of the land, he can't help but appreciate the strange beauty of the place.

Once they arrive in the village, they find the inn without trouble; a boisterous group of young Alpha’s clearly just returned from a tour of the moors congregating on the edge of the carpark. As he and John make their way past the group, Sherlock catches a whiff of their collective pheromones, and is instantly overcome by the disconcerting sensation of _threat._ He finds himself reflexively pulling his coat closed over his belly in an anxious flutter. John looks at him askance as he flips the collar up.

“It’s cold,” he defends weakly, a flush of heat warming his cheeks. It's humiliating how, despite his logical mind, as the pregnancy continues he’s more and more often helpless against these sudden flares of instinctual Omega response.

The innkeepers are a cheery Beta and Omega bonded pair, who immediately assume he and John to be as well. Not that the mistake isn't entirely understandable. Much more so than when they're out and about together in the city, it’s _nowhere_ within the norm for an unbonded Omega to travel freely in the company of an Alpha to whom they're neither bonded or related.

The fact that he'd deliberately worn a vest of John's beneath his shirt, to mimic the scent of a bond whilst travelling in the more conservative countryside certainly doesn't help matters.

“Oh dear,” the Beta, Gary, begins to fuss as he looks over their reservation, clearly assuming the request for separate beds to have been made in error. “Something must have gone amiss _—_ we have you two down for a twin instead of a double.” He clicks about furiously before offering an apologetic smile. “And we haven’t any doubles available until halfway through your stay, I’m afraid. We’ve been just swamped as of late.”

John's eyes dart to Sherlock in a panic before his face contorts into an uncomfortable looking rictus of a smile. “Oh no, we're not- uh,” John babbles, clearly torn over whether to correct the mistake. Though these two hardly _seem_ the overly conservative type, there's always a possibility that their reservation might be denied over their situation.

Sherlock smiles tightly and pointedly wanders away toward the front of the pub, leaving John to handle the situation as he sees fit. Playing the role of the submissive, pliant Omega certainly has it’s moments of usefulness.

“That's fine-” he hears John politely assure Gary behind him as he walks away, and his heart squeezes pitifully with relief in his chest. “We- we’re not… we’ll, uh, manage.”

His Omega settles happily inside of him with a pleased huff, and he gives it a perfunctory roll of his eyes, before neatly pushing the entire affair aside in his mind and refocusing on the case at hand.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end my friends!!! Well, of _this_ part at least. But don't despair! Life continues to be super hectic, and it's been difficult to set aside the time to write, but I definitely haven't abandoned ship! There are still a few more parts of the series to go- I just find it easier to stick to writing if I'm working with digestible portions, rather than one long rambling epic. When I gave in to the urge to write _[](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10074368)Scientific Rigour_ , I thought I'd get the O-verse plot bunny out of my system and then be done with it, and now here I am wrapping up a just shy of 40k+ mpreg follow up. Whelp- life will never ceases to be full of surprises!
> 
> In apology for taking so damned long, here you go y'all: a longer chapter than usual, and the big reveal you've all been waiting for! (Well...one of them at least!) A thousand thank you's to everyone who's followed along, kudosed and subscribed! I hope you've all enjoyed this part, and I hope the next one won't disappoint either. Enjoy!

The case is immediately off to a promising start. Coaxing the details about the various sightings of the supposed ‘hound’  _and_ an absurd insinuation about the labs at Baskerville out of the tour guide is child’s play. The moment that the young Alpha pulls the cast of a massive paw from his bag, however, Sherlock’s curiosity is well and truly piqued.

It’s a mere moment’s consideration to decide just what he and John should do, and how.

As soon as they see themselves upstairs to their room to unload their luggage, he retreats to the shower and methodically scrubs every inch of himself down with his favoured scent-neutralizer. Once he’s finished, he digs through his toiletries satchel one-handed, whilst hurriedly towelling himself dry. He pulls out vial after incorrect vial, tossing them aside in irritation until finally he unearths precisely the one he's searching for. He holds it up to the light to examine the contents, then flips it back down into his palm with a grin.

It can't be said that Mycroft doesn't have _some_ uses.

 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, in the car on the way to the base, John scents the air discreetly, and his nose wrinkles with distaste. “Oh, I thought you hired the car- you never said it was Mycroft's.”

“I did,” Sherlock corrects as his lips curl up into a smirk, “and it isn’t.”

“But…” John sniffs the air repeatedly with a frown, turning his head this way and that, not unlike a hound catching a scent. “It absolutely _reeks_ of Mycroft in here. You’re just having me on, aren’t you? I swear to g-” He stops abruptly as he turns toward the driver’s side, nose twitching mere inches from Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock’s smirk widens into a grin. “It’s you!”

“It is,” Sherlock confirms with a dip of his head, and John squints at him in perplexity.

“How the hell… You smell just like him! I mean, obviously you _always_ do, a bit, in the familial way _—_ but this... you smell like an _Alpha._ ”

The odd tone in John’s voice has Sherlock casting a surprised glance in his direction. “You don't like it.”

“I didn’t say _—_ ” John eyes the windscreen avoidantly, a rosy glow creeping into his cheeks as he fidgets. “I mean, I suppose… I’m just used to you smelling like an Om _-_  like _you_. It’s a bit weird, is all.”

“Ah,” Sherlock hums noncommittally. Despite his tendency to veer away from traditional Alpha norms, in the end, he supposes, John is just as much a slave to biology as anyone else. “The sudden introduction of the scent of a potential Alpha rival where before there was an Omega dep _—_ ”

“No,” John interrupts him, “it’s not _that._ I just- I _like_ your scent. It's nice. Mycroft’s, on the other hand, not so much.”

“Oh.” He has no idea what to say to _that. Nice? What does that even mean?_ He flounders for a moment, searching for something to say that won't have him inadvertently laying his heart at John’s feet. Nothing he thinks of seems especially safe, and so, he awkwardly launches back into exposition instead, as if they’d never veered off on a tangent to begin with. “It’s a synthesized reproduction of Mycroft’s scent; a formulation of my own design. Incredibly useful for getting into places normally off-limits to Omegas. I originally devised it in university, to enable myself to safely loiter in… less than savoury places.”

“So you could hang about drug dens without being sexually assaulted, you mean.” John pointedly rephrases with a scowl, and it’s Sherlock’s turn to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

“It sounds so _sordid_ when you put it that way,” he gives a moue of protest, “but _yes_. Of course, once I was clean, I realized that it had far more promising applications for my work. Mycroft positively _abhors_ it, but even he can agree that the alternative is significantly worse. I’ve also crafted an entirely synthetic generic Beta version, which is especially effective in situations when I want to go unnoticed.”

“That’s brilliant; it really is. You never cease to amaze me,” John praises as he rolls down his window, “but did you have to use so _much?_ ”

“It’s commonplace for Alpha’s attempting to seem more authoritative to use scent enhancers. When it’s applied heavily it’s mistaken for that, and disregarded without further thought. In the unlikely case that they _do_ pick up a hint of my own diminished scent beneath the artificial one, they’ll assume it’s the scent of a bond. I’m sure I wouldn’t pull anything over on a perfumer or pheromonist, but the general populace is hardly so discerning.”

“Wait,” John’s face scrunches up in confusion. “What are we doing that you need to smell like an authoritative Alpha for?”

 

* * *

 

Entering the Baskerville Facility, and watching the soldier come out in John as he pulls rank is… an experience.

For once he and his inner Omega are entirely in agreement, and it’s all that he can do to keep himself from panting with lust. It’s truly a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust; if he weren’t already pregnant, he’s fairly certain that the level of arousal would easily have sent him into a faux-heat, suppressants or no.

Putting Mycroft through his paces, _and_ solving the mystery of the missing bunny rabbit all at once? Icing on an already irresistible cake. (A metaphor that Mycroft would _surely_ be able to appreciate, if only he hadn’t a tree branch lodged so firmly up his arse.)

When John pesters him for the details about the rabbit as they leave, and implies that Sherlock’s coat and cheekbones make him look cool and mysterious, his Omega can’t help but preen delightedly, despite Sherlock’s flustered outward denial. He can’t recall a more pleasantly diverting afternoon in recent memory.

And then, that night, on his own foolhardy suggestion, they venture out into Dewer’s Hollow with Henry, and his newfound, cheerful contentment shatters apart in a torch-lit instant.

 

* * *

 

John finds him not long afterward, encamped in front of roaring fire at the inn and staring into the crackling flames. He perches in the armchair opposite and, while Sherlock attempts to calm his rattled nerves and still-racing heart, cheerfully prattles about Henry, the unlikelihood of ‘mutant suger-dogs’ on the moors, and a morse signal of some kind.

When John irreverently suggests they just look for local’s with oversize housepets, Sherlock finds himself announcing the last thing he’d have ever imagined himself saying when Henry Knight first appeared in the sitting room at 221B.

“Henry’s right.”

“What?” John asks blankly, and Sherlock’s finds that his voice trembles slightly as he elaborates.

“I saw it too.”

_“What?”_

For once, Sherlock can’t be bothered to make any sort of fuss about the concept of repetition. Without looking up from the hearth, he repeats himself quietly.

“I saw it too, John.”

“Just... just a minute,” John baulks, leaning forward in his seat. “You saw _what_?”

Sherlock finally turns his face to meet John’s gaze, his expression twisting into a scowl of self-loathing as he does.

“A hound. Out there, in the Hollow,” he bites the words out through gritted teeth. “ _A_. _Gigantic. Hound_.”

John gapes at him momentarily before cautiously attempting a response. “Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can’t just…” He hesitates briefly as Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath of air through his nose. “Let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the _facts_.”

“Once you’ve ruled out the impossible,” Sherlock murmurs softly in response, “whatever remains– however improbable– _must_ be true.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Sherlock wordlessly turns back toward the flames, reaching out to pluck his glass from the nearby table. His eyes catch on the tremor of his hand, and he lets loose a bitter chuckle. “Look at me. I’m afraid, John. _Afraid._ ”

“Sherlock?”

“Always been able to keep myself distant…” He pauses to sip at the now-flat ginger ale before rambling onward. “To divorce myself from... _feelings_. But look, you see,” he lifts his quivering hand once more, “my body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? _Emotions._ ” He slams the glass back down onto the table. “The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment!”

“Yeah, all right, Spock,” John holds his palms up in a pacifying gesture, “just...take it easy. You’ve been… pretty _wired_ lately. You know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up,” John attempts to placate him.

“Worked... _up?_ ” Sherlock questions with growing agitation, while John continues to try and soothe his jangled nerves. _Perhaps John should try being responsible for the wellbeing another human being growing inside his body, and_ then _decide what’s appropriate instinct and what’s just being ‘worked up’._

“It was dark and scary…”

“ _Me?!_ “ Sherlock explodes, “There’s nothing _wrong_ with me! I’m just _—_ ” He cuts himself off before he can say it; the one secret he’s been so carefully guarding for all these weeks now. Aware of just how near hyperventilation he’s come, he presses his shaking fingers to his temples and focuses on bringing his breathing under control.

”Sherlock...” John frowns at him across the span between their chairs. “You’re just what?”

If he tells John now, there’s no going back. Regardless of John’s reaction, he can’t un-speak the words once they’re spoken,

But he can’t live under the burden of this secret any longer.

“Yes. Well… um,” Sherlock shifts in his chair and takes a shaky breath, “I have reason to be more concerned for my safety than I used to be. I may have neglected to…”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John prompts him sternly when he fails to continue.

Sherlock clears his throat, which suddenly seems dry and parched, and tries again. “I may have neglected to share some relevant news with you regarding my… current condition.”

“Your current con-” John’s eyebrows jump together abruptly in confusion, and then rise up toward his hairline as a look of alarmed realization spreads across his face. “Sherlock, are you saying that you’re…you’re…” His eyes trail down Sherlock’s body and focus in on his abdomen. He looks quite as though he’s about to faint. Sherlock closes his eyes and replies, a touch hysterically.

“Pregnant.”

“Oh.” John says woodenly, and Sherlock risks peering up at him, only be gutted by the look of utter devastation on John’s face. _Couldn’t you be pleased John? Even a little bit? Is it really_ that _awful?_ John swallows and licks his lips before continuing haltingly, just as Sherlock attempts to cut him off.

“So then you… ah… with Irene, then?”

“I understand if you _—_   _What?_ ” He gapes, utterly aghast as the implication of John’s words filters through. “ _Irene?_ You think that I _… with Irene Adler?_ ”

John merely blinks back at him dumbly, and Sherlock finds himself babbling on in a fluster.

“ _No_. Irene and I _never…_ absolutely _not,”_ he grimaces emphatically. “When you, ah _—_   _assisted_ me. With my heat. ...There may have been some, or rather, I suppose, _a_ singular… unintended consequence.”

“You mean... it’s _mine?_ ” John stares back at him, eyes like dinner plates.

“Yes.” Sherlock confirms, smoothing a protective hand over his belly under the pretense of straightening his shirt. “Twelve weeks along, approximately. You’re as aware as I am of the window of conception.”

“Oh my god...” John’s voice trembles.

“John, you _must_ understand,” Sherlock bursts out anxiously, “I didn’t mean to... I didn’t inform you sooner only because…” He fidgets in his chair briefly, scratching at the fabric of the arm in avoidance, well aware that his actions have been the very epitome of ‘not good’. Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath, he rambles onward. “I realize we agreed that it was an experiment and nothing more, but… I’ve found myself undeniably defensive of the… of _it_ , and I _—_ I found I was unable to take the risk that you… you might leave.” He lifts his eyes anxiously to meet John’s shell-shocked gaze.

“You thought I’d leave so that you’d…” The blood drains from John’s face as he trails off in realization. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut again, finding even the _idea_ of it surprisingly far harder to discuss than he’d expected.

“Miscarry, yes. A prolonged separation from the pheromones of the siring Alpha prior to the the third trimester results in spontaneous termination in approximately ninety-seven percent of cases.”

“I’m well aware, yeah. As I keep reminding you, I _am_ a doctor. Sherlock…” John rubs his eyes in an agitated but exhausted manner and sighs heavily. “I wouldn’t just _—_ but you… you _had_ to have realized you wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for very long.”

“Of course not. My research indicated that it would be near impossible to conceal past the scent change at fourteen weeks, and that was only if I didn’t start to show sooner, or if you didn’t piece it together yourself from the other symptoms. That had seemed especially likely, given that you are, indeed, a doctor. In fact, I rather hope your obliviousness isn't an overall reflection of your medical capabilities.”

“Oh, piss off!” John exclaims loudly enough to attract the attention of some of the other guests dining nearby. With a sheepish look, he grasps the arms of his chair and leans in toward Sherlock before continuing on in a lowered voice. “It isn't as if you've got a bloody neon sign floating above your head announcing ‘I’m pregnant’. It’s not _that_ obvious unless you’re looking for it. _And_ you were purposely trying to hide it from me!” John huffs as he runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Even though we... _that_ was the furthest thing from my mind! I mean…” he casts an eye about the room, then lowers his voice even further, to a whisper, “we only did it without a condom _once!_ And with how long you’d been on suppressants for, the odds of us conceiving were downright infinitesimal.”

“Well, perhaps you should go buy a lottery ticket, _Dad,_ ” Sherlock snipes back in a harsh whisper of his own. “It was hardly as if I needed to put in great effort on my part to hide things from you, given how much time you’ve spent avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been _avoiding_ you,” John contends in an exasperated tone. “I was trying to be _respectful!_ I just _—_ I didn’t want you to think I was one of those alphas who gets ideas just because we _—_ ” John falters and blushes beetroot red. ”I just thought it would be better to give you space.”

“Space? I don’t need _space_ ,” Sherlock declares waspishly, unable to rein in his argumentative nature. “And in any case, _you_ were the one that said it didn’t change things between us. That wasn’t exactly true was it?”

“Yeah, well, if it wasn’t before it certainly isn’t _now_ ,” John responds, with a pointed look at Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Mm,” Sherlock hums for lack of a better response, the fight going out of him immediately as his Omega fights its way to the forefront if his mind and frantically reminds him of the fact he needs to secure John's _support_ ; _not_ drive their Alpha away.

They lapse into silence and, as Sherlock stares into the fire, a thought occurs to him regarding John’s potential objections to the the child. “You needn’t worry about providing for it,” he hurries to reassure John. “Being as I remain Mycroft’s Omega dependens, any child that I bear will legally carry the Holmes name. While Mycroft might have battened down and find himself a mate eventually, if only to pass on the family name, I can’t imagine he’d bother if I were to... do the dirty work for him, so to speak. It would demand far too much of his time, and he does so _hate_ getting sweaty.”

“God, there’s a horrifying image,” John grimaces.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees with a shudder of revulsion. “An Alpha child would immediately become the next Holmes heir. And, of course, should the child present as an Omega instead, they’d still want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.”

“I’m not.” John states matter-of-factly, and Sherlock’s heart thumps anxiously against his sternum over the neutral tone.

 _Could the blasted man not be a tad more elaborate?_ Is John unconcerned because he refuses to be involved or because…

“You’ve known since the Cavendish case, haven’t you,” John sighs, rubbing his palms against the arms of his chair and staring down at the hearth. “When I pointed out that Marie was probably pregnant, and you sort of… shut down.”

“I _—_ yes,” Sherlock admits reluctantly. “I needed to confirm it at home, but… yes.”

“ _Christ_ Sherlock! You kept it from me for _weeks!”_

“Yes, but I clearly indicated that I would have informed you bef— ”

“Why didn’t you trust me?”John tediously interrupts, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. “Would you have even told me at _all_ if you decided _not_ to keep it? Or would you have just left?”

Sherlock’s heart takes up residence in his throat at the suggestion, and he swallows against the painful thump. _Oh,_ _honestly—_  it’s as if the man can’t be satisfied without finding _some_ point of contention between them! Whatever he _would_ have done hardly matters now that he’s _has_ told John, now does it?

“God,forget I said that,” John cuts into his thoughts abruptly with a sigh. Sherlock looks up in surprise to find John squinting at him with a strange, unreadable air. “I just _—_ I need you to be _honest,_ Sherlock _._ Do you... do you actually want this?”

“I do believe that was implied by my hesitation to inform you. It’s a marvelous scientific opportunity that should no— ”

“You _do_ ,” John tilts his head in wonderment, “You actually _want_ this baby.”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stammers embarrassingly.

“Okay,” John’s head bobs one in a brisk, decisive nod. “So we're going to have a baby then.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” Sherlock asks, and once again, it’s as though he’s opened a dam; another flood of anxious prattle suddenly spilling from his lips unchecked. “I know that it’s _—_ You must know John, that, despite my wanting to keep the child, I truly hadn’t at all meant for this to happen. I’ve no desire to... trap you. I’m well aware that there are certain beliefs about we omegas in this regard, but I don’t expect anything of you _—_ once the baby is born, you’re welcome to leave immediately if you so choose, and I’ll n-”

John cuts off his rambling monologue with a gentle hand on his knee. “Sherlock, _I’m_ the idiot who told you that you were almost certainly safe from conception, and then immediately proceeded to get you up the duff. So you _definitely_ don’t have to defend yourself.” His hand slips to Sherlock’s thigh, just above his knee, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “If you want this baby, then we’re going to have this baby, and it’s going to be _brilliant_. You’re my best friend, and I’m happy to do this if it’s what you want to do. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinks against the sudden prickle of moisture in his eyes. Just like that, the enormous weight he’s been struggling under for the last several weeks drops away from his shoulders, and he feels light enough to simply float away.

“I didn't even know you _liked_ kids.” John marvels as he lifts his hand away and settles back in his chair. Sherlock stares down at his tingling thigh where John’s hand had just been and sighs.

“Children are… objectively not uninteresting. They can of course, be cruel and thoughtless,” he flutters his fingers in a small wave of acknowledgement, “but I'm given to understand their behaviour is largely attributable to how they’re reared.” He shrugs. “Not unlike dogs really.”

An amused laugh burbles up from John. “Did you just compare children to _dogs_?”

“Well, I certainly have more experience with the latter than the former.”

“God, now that I think about it, it’s a bit mad, isn’t it?” John questions with a disbelieving shake of his head. “You and I raising a child? We’re hardly the most qualified of the lot.”

“Please, John,” Sherlock rolls his eyes with false bravado. “Imbeciles have children all the time. In fact, I’d never thought of it before but, while the Philip Andersons of the world run about reproducing without thought, my own _—_ arguably superior _—_ genes were destined to fall by the wayside until now. A child with my genetic material is unlikely to have anything below exceptional intelligence and you're not unintelligent yourself.”

“Oh, ta” John interrupts with sardonic grin. Sherlock clears his throat delicately. Ah yes, it’s undoubtedly not the best time to cast anything resembling aspersions on John’s intelligence. Best change tactics.

“The point being _—_ our child will be at an advantage straight out the gate, so to speak. And just _think_ John; it’s ultimate, ever-evolving experiment! We’ll be able to document, first-hand, the effects of genetic disposition versus the learned behaviours, and _—_ ”

“That's all very well and good Sherlock,” John asserts with a pained wince, “but you _do_ understand that they'll also be a _person_. You know, with a individual needs, and desires, and all that inconvenient stuff you hate about me.”

“I don't hate _anything_ about you,” Sherlock immediately counters, a perplexed frown crumpling his forehead.

_I could never do anything other than love you._

“Oh,” John blurts softly with surprise. He stares at Sherlock intensely for a few moments, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim glow from the fire. Sherlock stares back, willing himself to keep any hint of his thoughts from his own eyes.

Certainly, John’s endless, incessant needs are occasionally irritating. But he could never _hate_ John. Not for anything. And considering the surprising depth of sentiment he already feels toward the child, he can’t imagine it will be any different with them. For a short while, they sit just so; gazing silently at one another until, finally, Sherlock gives an awkward cough and continues.

“What I mean to say is that... It will be endlessly interesting to document what traits and behaviours they inherit from you, as opposed to myself. They may even exhibit a mixture of characteristics! And there are further possibilities based upon our input…” he trails off momentarily, his mind caught up in envisioning it for the first time, entirely free from anxiety. Finally unsuppressed or dampened, excitement doesn’t so much creep as _explode_ through his veins. _Their child._ He looks up at John with bright eyes. “Just imagine John! _My_ observational skills, paired with _your_ social graces; could be incredibly useful.”

“Could be dangerous,” John offers in return, a rakish grin suddenly lighting up his face, and Sherlock's heart flutters in his chest.

“And yet here you are,” Sherlock replies. A crooked, bashful smile of his own tugs at the corners of his mouth, as the first hesitant stirrings of hope start up inside his chest. John tilts his head agreeably, his grin growing impossibly brighter and warmer. So bright, in fact, that it’s almost painful to look at.

“Here I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we'll be diving back into John's POV for another Interlude! See you soon!


End file.
